


Oedipus

by BootieMonet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, BAMF Molly, Case Fic, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Missing Persons, Murder, Murderers, Organized Crime, Prologue, Serial Killers, Sherlock AU, Sherlolly - Freeform, corpse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootieMonet/pseuds/BootieMonet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is a child when her mother goes missing. Convinced she was murdered by the infamous serial killer that targets young mothers, Molly and her father spend years searching for answers, but to no avail. After years of inactivity, the killer appears to be back, and now has a target on Molly's back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING*  
> \- Graphic depictions of violence  
> -Violence against Women  
> -Depression, suicidal thoughts/attempts  
> -Alcoholism/narcotics
> 
> (Also, I apologise for the strange formatting. I'm new to this, so I'm still trying to figure out how to work everything out.)

_"Daddy!"_  a little girl clad in a school uniform cried, "Daddy, where's mummy?" She stares up at the tall men in heavy uniforms standing in the middle of her living room, deep in discussion with her father. Her voice is drowned out. He doesn't hear her, and he continues to talk frantically to the strange men. 

 

 

"Emma would never just leave her there! It's been seven hours, and she hasn't called, and- and this just isn't something she would do!"

One of the men looked at her father sympathetically. "We'll do everything we can to find your wife, Mr Hooper. In the meantime, you and your daughter should get some rest-"

Before her father could interrupt, the unknown man put his hand on his shoulder, patting it gently. "- and I'll call you immediately if anything happens, okay?"

Her father nodded slowly. His face was pale and drained of all colour - he looked numb and far older than a man in his mid twenties. 

 

The officers turned to leave, a police woman crouching down to the little girl's level.

 "Hello sweetie, what's your name?" The woman asked, smiling softly at her. _She’s very pretty_ , the young girl thought to herself.

 

"M- my name is Molly."

The woman's smile broadened. "You have a very pretty name, Molly. Would you like a sweetie?"

Molly looked up at her father for reassurance, but he was busy talking to the policeman again. She snapped her gaze back to the woman in front of her with a frown on her face. "What's happened to my mummy? She was suppose to pick me up from school."

 The woman's smile faltered a bit as she carefully picked out her words. "Well, Molly... your mum is visiting a good friend right now."

 Molly frowned again. “She is?"

 

"Yes, she is. She wanted us to come over here and make sure that you’re alright. She told us to pick you up from school- but there was traffic, and I was very late, so I'd like to apologise for that, Molly."

 

Molly tugged at the hem of her skirt, fidgeting with her clothing. She always fidgeted when she got nervous.

The woman reached inside of her trouser pocket and pulled out a chocolate "Here ye' go now," she said, "Go on, take it."

She tentatively reached out for the sweet, taking it from the woman.

 

 "Now go get some sleep, and make sure your dad does too, okay sweetheart?"

"Okay," she replied. 

 The woman brushed a piece of hair out of Molly's face, and stood up to leave. 

 

 

 

When they had all gone and it was just her and her dad, he scooped her up with one arm and carried her to her bedroom. He set her down on her bed and kissed her goodnight without really looking at her, before he left the room to sit by the telephone.

Once he left, she stood up from her bed and stripped off her school uniform. She looked around her room. The walls  were pink and covered with kitten stickers, while the floor was littered with stuffed animals and toys. Where were her pajamas? Her mummy had always dressed her for bed. Then she remembered that her mummy pulled out her pajamas from the top drawer of her wardrobe.

She stood on her tip toes, straining her arm to reach for the top drawer, but failed; she was too short. In the end she wrapped herself tightly in her blanket to protect herself from the cold, in only her underwear.  

 

It had been 6 months, and her mum still had not returned home. Her father became restless as the months passed. He held search parties every few weeks, he posted signs with pictures of her face on them on wooden posts, post boards,  all around the shopping centre. When it became six months since the day of her disappearance, the police had phoned her father to tell him that they had run out of leads and that the case would be reopened once a new one had been found.  Her father was furious and distraught; he broke just about anything fragile out of anger and frustration. He screamed and cried while little Molly hid in the bathroom with her hands closed over her ears. _'I want mummy, I want mummy!'_  She mumbled to herself, with tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Silence had fallen over their flat eventually. 

 

 

 

A knock came from the other side of the bathroom door. She shuffled away from it and sat closer to the loo. He entered the bathroom, face red, eyes bloodshot and puffy, and his hands were bleeding.

"Daddy, what happened to your hands?" He didn't answer her question, he just reached out for her and she huddled into his arms.

"I'm sorry, Moll's. I- I'm so sorry..." He started to sob into her hair, and Molly didn't understand what he meant by that. She awkwardly stood there and let him hold her, and cry. It was strange seeing her daddy cry, she thought. ' _Grown ups aren't supposed to cry.'_

He took her head in both of his unsteady hands, and looked her straight in the eyes. She could feel the stickiness of the blood on his hands against her skin.

"We're going to find mummy together, okay?" She nodded, still not grasping what he meant. Mummy was on holiday, that's what they had told her. He pulled her closer, and kissed her forehead with trembling lips. "We're going to find her- just you and me." 

Cedric Hooper came home that night with stacks of newspapers, all from different companies, dating as far back as two years previously. He plopped them on the table, and called for seven year old Molly to come over. He set a stack of newspapers in front of her. "I need you to look in current events columns in each of these new papers. Do you understand?"

She nodded. Her mother had been a teacher's assistant and as a result, Molly had learned how to read at an early age, although she still struggled a bit. 

 

 "Look for any articles to do with missing women, and let me know when you find them, okay?"

She furrowed her brows in confusion.  "What does "arcticles" mean, daddy?"

He sighed, shaking his head impatiently at Molly. "Just look for pictures of women, or the word 'woman', and let me know. I'm going to look through these ones," he looked up from the papers with a half mad smile on his face.  "We're going to work together, and bring her back home!"

He was beaming at her, and she felt obliged to do the same back at him. She still didn’t understand what he meant by "bringing her back home". Why couldn’t they just call her, and tell her that?, Molly thought; she's probably having too much fun to want to come back, anyway. Molly did miss her though, so she complied with helping her dad to bring her back.  She hoped that Mummy wouldn't be upset at them for doing so. They just missed her so much.

Molly was twelve when she learned the real reason about why her mother had never come back.  She had read enough articles by then to understand the severity of her mother's disappearance. Her mother was a potential victim of a serial killer.  He stalked the streets of London, and for some strange and unknown reason only targeted mothers between the ages of 25- 40. Police and newspaper journalists called him ' Oedipus'. She and her dad lived in Brighton, about an hour and a half away from London. Everything pointed at Oedipus, but they lacked the evidence and the reasons to make their claim applicable. If Emilia Hooper really was a victim, she would be the only one that didn't live in London. 

All the women had similar features. They either had long hair, dirty blonde or auburn, pale skin, and soft faces - relatively friendly looking women. Her father had come up with the theory that Emma could still be alive, that she somehow escaped from the murderer and was in hiding. 

Even though it meant he would never see her again, he still considered it to be a better alternative than the other. He spent most of his time staring at the bulletin board that hung and took up most of their living room wall. It was covered with cut out articles about Emma (her father insisted on calling her that, despite the articles using her full name), and other women who mysteriously vanished around the same time.

 

 

 Molly took up a private project of her own by studying the pictures of some the victims of Oedipus in her room.Oedipus sometimes displayed his triumphs in the most sickly manner. He sent a hand or a foot to people in high places by mail. 

He always left his signature mark on the hands and feet that he sent. The palms of the hands were scorched black, and so were the bottoms of the feet. Seeing how clean the hands and feet were cut, there was no sign of a struggle, so obviously they were already dead by the time they were dismembered. His killing time span had lasted two years, and for some reason they mysteriously stopped once Emilia Hooper went missing. 

It was too strange to be a coincidence, but that's what everyone thought it was; a coincidence. 

Family and friends gossiped about how her mother and father were going to end in divorce eventually; They believed she ran off while she had her chance, that she abandoned them. Molly didn't know her well enough to object. She was only seven at the time, and everyone and everything seemed happy to her at that age. 

 She grew up faster than most children, though. At school, other kids would tease her about her "Looney" dad, and that she was "looney" just like him. They made fun of her obsession with death, and called her names, like "the grimm reaper" or "looney Molly" . She never understood why they were so mean to her; she had always been nice to them(although whenever they made fun of her dad she did not hold back her anger, and usually got sent to the school's headmaster's office.). 

She had only two school friends; Shirley McKinnon and Thomas Butterfield. Shirley’s mum was friends with Emilia before she went missing; they went to primary school together, and were very close. She did her best to watch over Molly when she could by inviting her over for dinner,or to sleepover, but her father would regularly turn down the offers. 

He rarely allowed her to go out, and he would throw a tantrum if Molly didn't arrive right on the dot, after school. One time he had called the police when she hadn't shown up half past three(she was stuck in detention for hitting Vernon Johnson in the face,  after he purposely pushed Tom into a mud puddle.) . The police came to her school and questioned the teachers on her whereabouts and the teachers directed them to the headmaster's office, where they found Molly and Tom sitting on a wooden bench outside the office, both covered in dried mud, head to toe. They were allowed to leave after that, but word had soon spread about the incident the next day around school.  

"You're dad's a lunatic, y'know that?" remarked Vernon Johnson, in snarky tone. It was break time - she, Shirley, and Tom were sitting by the swing set, when Vernon and his group of friends came up to them. Molly ignored the jibe, not wanting to lose her temper and having to be sent to detention again.

 

 The boy leaned in towards her, his face close to her ear, "Did ye hear what I said?" He whispered in a sing song voice, "YOUR DAD BELONGS IN MENTAL HOSPITAL!" Molly flinched as he screamed into her ear. Tom immediately stood up, his cheeks flaming red.

 

"Shut up, Vernon."

The boy glanced to were the dangly tall boy stood, huffing and puffing.

"What did ye say to me?" He stalked closer to where Tom stood, "Do you want me to finish from where we left off yesterday?"

"I said; Shut. Up."

Molly looked up at her best friend, alarmed.

 

 "Tom, it's okay, just drop it-" she chimed in. She did not want to be the reason for Tom getting hurt.

"Yeah, why don't listen to your psycho girlfriend? I hear she collects dead animals and cuts them open. I bet she eats them-"  His eyes suddenly widened. Vernon was the exact opposite of Tom, both physically, and personally; he was short and stubby, with a wide stomach, and with cheeks so large they almost hid his eyes. He stood right in front of Tom, glaring up at him with a smirk on his face, "- I bet she and her dad eat them raw- with the fur, and everything! Her dad's probably training her, so that she can take over for him as the psychopath of the neighbourhood when he's sent off to the loony bin!" 

He turned to his friends that were throwing fits of laughter, behind him.  

 

 "I'd say he's doing a pretty good job! And Ye know what?" He said, turning to face them, again, "-I bet he killed her mum!"

 

Before Molly could  react to his words, Tom had already thrown himself at Vernon, tackling him to the ground.

Shirley screamed, and ran off to go find a teacher, while Molly tried to intervene and separate the two.

"No- Tom! Stop!" She cried, pulling at his shirt to get him off the other boy. His friends were all cheering him on, making loud chanting sounds. She had just ripped Tom away when a punch came flying at her, hitting her straight on her jaw. She was knocked off her feet, and fell backwards. Tom was immediately at her side.

"Molly! I'm so sorry- are you okay?" He asked her, worriedly.

A dribble of blood leaked down her chin "I- I'm fine..." She said as he helped her up. She was massaging her jaw, and she walked to where Vernon nervously stood. She could here his friends mumbling things, like :  _"I can't believe he hit a girl!"_  And, _" that's not right..."_  She smirked at that last part.

"I won't tell on you." She callously stated. The boy's sparse brows knotted together.

"W-why wouldn't you?"

"Because from now on, you're going to leave Tom and Shirley, alone. You can say or do whatever you like to me, just as long as you stay away from them. The headmaster won't hear a thing about how you whacked me in the jaw. Possibly fracturing it," She turned her head to the side and  spat out some blood, "Understood?"

The boy stood there speechless for a moment, then shortly grunted in agreement. He and his friends walked off murmuring to each other, glancing back at them.

"Molls! I'm sorry, but I couldn't just let him say that to you." Tom fished in the pockets of his trousers and presented her with a hankie. "Here, take it."

She spat out a tooth into the now blood stained white piece of fabric and winced. Her jaw was throbbing.

Tears slowly built up in her eyes  _"Most definitely fractured."_ She muttered to herself.

 

"Where'd Shirley go?"

 

" Oh, she went to grab a teacher, and here she is now..."

Shirley gasped in horror, "Oh Molly, what did they do to you?!"  Mrs Radcliffe was close behind her, so Molly took a chance.

 

She leaned in, closely. "Nothing. Nothing happened to me. I slipped and fell, okay?"

 

Shirley looked positively perplexed, but nodded her head, anyway.

"Molly Hooper, what on earth happened here?" Mrs Radcliffe, demanded once she closed in on them, pulling out another handkerchief to wipe the smeared blood on her chin.

 

"I- I was, um, I was on the swing...and I fell."

Mrs. Radcliffe arched an eyebrow at her. "You fell from the swing?" Molly and Tom nodded their heads in unison. She spun on her heel, staring pointedly at Shirley. "Shirley McKinnon, you informed me that a fight had broken out. Why did you lie?"

Shirley shrunk under the teacher's glare, her bottom lip wedged between her teeth. "I... I thought that's what happened. Sorry, miss."

 The teacher scrutinized them for a moment, before taking in a deep breath.

"All right, follow me. I'll take you to the nurse's room. You two had better start heading to class, now. The bell will ring very shortly."

 

 

The nurse called her father, and told him that he would have to take her to the hospital to get her jaw x-rayed. Molly's suspicions were proven to be true when the doctor came back with the results three hours later.

  "Her jaw is definitely fractured, but thankfully it's not too serious. We're going to have to insert three wires on both sides of her mouth to keep her jaw still for about a month and a half. She'll have to eat pureed food till then" The doctor eyed at his clipboard, and then glanced up to look at her.

"How'd this happen, again?"

 

The left side of her jaw was so swollen, she could barely speak, "I fwell off thwah swing." She recited, pressing the cold ice pack gently against her jaw.

When it was just her and her dad again, he turned to her with a stern gaze. 

"You've got to be more careful, Molls. Bad things happen when we aren't careful. You of  _all_  people should know that!"

 

 

 

 

 

He continued to lecture her all the way home,  and she pretended to be paying attention, very carefully tilting her head and muttering sounds to make it seem as if she was acknowledging what he was saying, but in truth she was making silent vows to herself; to never let him find out the real reason why she had been getting detention; why she had been coming home with bruises and cuts. That it was all for him.

Two months later her jaw was healing along, just fine. There was a faint scar that would reveal itself in direct sunlight, but other than that she was as fine as she could ever be.

Early on a Saturday morning, a knock came from outside Molly's 'office' (that was what she liked to call it.) Molly popped her head out from the window  "Tom! Did you bring them?"  She was inside the old abandoned shed that stood behind her flat. It was falling a part, and smelt strongly of mildew and damp wood, yet it was quiet, and that made it suitable for her purpose.

 

 "Yeah, could you open the door? It's a bit heavy, and they smell horrible." The dangly boy saddled in carrying a large blue tote box inside the shed.  

 

"Just set it on the table, over there." She took a double glance at him, frowning.  "Did you actually carry it all the way here?"

He waddled over to the table and set the box down before he replied.

"Of course not! I borrowed little Ben's wagon."  He wrinkled up his nose a bit, and swatted the air. "They smell foul, but they're from yesterday's batch. I just stuffed the bag in the tote, and left. My uncle had no idea."

Molly smiled at him appreciatively. "I just hope there are no cute one's in this batch..."   She pulled out her satchel and took out a metal container. She snapped on a pair of marigolds, opened the lid of the box, and gagged. The smell was so intense that it brought tears to her eyes. This was the only way she could practice, she reminded herself as she opening the lid of her metal container, reaching for her scalpel.

Molly had developed a peculiar interest in studying the human anatomy. She would go to the local library and take out books on the subject, and read about post mortems. And sometimes she would take out books on infamous serial killers out of curiosity.  She would look at murder scene photographs from old newspapers and would try to examine and come to a conclusion on her own, before reading the body paragraph. Her predictions were sometimes correct. 

Although she was only twelve, with thorough research, she believed she had finally found her calling. A forensic pathologist; now that was a career she could see herself pursuing. She was certainly capable of doing it. She had the interest, and the drive.  _Might as well start practising now, I suppose._ She thought to herself.  Tom's uncle picked up roadkill for a living. Sometimes when he wasn't paying attention, Tom would take either one medium sized animal (like a raccoon, or a skunk), or a bundle of small ones( crows, squirrels, rabbits, cats, dogs.), for Molly to practice on.

He found it disgusting and absurd when she had first asked him about it, however he eventually got around it.

Shirley's dad was police man in London. He was assigned to a few of Oedipus's victims cases. When she'd go visit him, Shirley would sometimes overhear information on cases he was working on when he was on the phone and scribble down notes on a piece of paper.  Shirley dreamed of becoming a detective when she was older and she and Molly would come up with theories about cases, many to do with Oedipus. 

Molly had become disturbingly obsessed with his murders as the years passed. The way he did them, and the psychology behind it. It all fascinated her. Her dad noticed early on, and practically encouraged it. They would discuss their theories almost every night after supper, he agreed with some of them, and would even pitch some of the one's that he thought had enough evidence to open his wife's case again to the police. They hardly ever made it past the sergeants, though, and they eventually dismissed him as an obsessed nut case. 

Sixteen was a landmark year for Molly Hooper. Not just because she had finally built up the courage to chop her hair up to her ears, the first time she ever had a hair cut since she was in primary school, or that she sported shiny new braces. It definitely wasn't because she had her first-ever snog with Tom (which was rather awful). 

 

 It was partly because it was the year that her father had been diagnosed with leukaemia, and the other part was because of another rather disturbing event, as well.

Her father had just finished his third treatment of chemotherapy and was resting in the hospital with her aunt by his side. Molly had been at home when she received the phone call that changed everything dramatically. 

Molly jumped on her bicycle and rode to the hospital, sweat dripping down her forehead and stinging her eyes. Once she got past the front desk, she rushed into the hospital room, short of breath and almost tripping over own feet. Her father was sitting upright on the hospital bed, with his eyes slightly closed, almost as if he was sleeping. Her aunt stood up, alert.

 

 "Moll's, what's the matter? I was going to drop him off soon, he just needed some rest first..." The woman asked, questioning the blatant fear stricken pale face of her niece. "Molly?"

 

"Aunt Norah, th-they-" she was interrupted by the voice of a news anchorman doing a report on the telly.  

_"Twelve human skeletons have been found at Hyde park, along with the decomposing body of what officials believe to be female. The gruesome scene was discovered by a young man when he was jogging through the park this morning. Examiners are working to identify the victims."_

Aunt Norah's face transformed as realization hit her. She paced over to her niece and took her hand. 

 

 

"Are you certain?"

 

She shook her head and casted her gaze at her resting father, and looked back at her aunt, and murmured in a hushed voice: "A coroner's liaison officer called. They need someone to identify the body, but dad's too weak right now, and I was too young to remember what she looked like, and-"

Her father groaned loudly, wrinkling his face in a grimace. His eyelids lazily fluttered open.

"...Molly. Come here..." He patted the bed beside him.  Her aunt patted her on the shoulder and stepped outside the room to give them privacy. Molly sat down hesitantly, trying to search for the right words to tell her father.

"What's the matter, Molls? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

 

_'More like being revisited by one.'_

 

She bit her bottom lip, letting her fringe fall over her eyes to hide them.

 "D-dad, I need to tell you something..."

 

"Molls, this better not be about some bloke, I swear. I told you quite clearly that you're not allowed to even think about boys."  

 

 "What? No, dad. It's something about- uh, It's...it's about-"

 

He pouted, and sighed, heavily, "Spit it out, Molly. I'm too exhausted to even attempt to figure out what you're trying to say, 'specially with that stutter of yours."

She rolled her shoulders back, sat up straight, and peered at him.  "It's about Emma, dad."

He grimaced, and shot her a look of annoyance, "Mum. She's your mum, Molly. That's what you call her." His gaze hardened, afterwards. " What about her? Any news?"

 

She began to fidget with her fingers, and the moment she noticed her dad watching her, she immediately pulled her hands apart.

"Well, yes, actually. An officer from London, called... They said that- that-"

_"Molly."_

" - They found bodies- well, one, actually. The rest were skeletons." She locked eyes with him, " They need us to identify it... They think it might be Em- Mum."

 

 If she where to choose a word to describe the look on his face at that very moment, the closest word would've  probably been nauseated. The word depicted all the emotions that he must have felt; Disturbed, heartbreak, anger, frustration, and lots, and lots of despair.

"They're not sure if it's her or not, but dad, I-"

"Let's go, then."

She gaped at him. He was practically immobilized, vomiting every few hours, and in absolutely no condition for travelling. "Dad, neither of us can drive, and you're in no shape to go all the way to London."  She chewed at her lip, anxiously hoping that that would make him think rationally.

It, however, did not. The next day they traveled to London, packed in Aunt Norah's tiny old rusted frog eye car. Aunt Norah insisted that she go in his stead, but her brother was an extremely persistent man. Molly's father hadn't spoken a word since they left the driveway of their home - not that she blamed him. There really wasn't anything anyone could say. All of what could be said, would be said on their way back, she supposed. Maybe.

They got out of the car in front of St. Bart's. Her aunt told them that she'd stay in the car and be waiting for them when they came back. They were introduced to two liaison officers, and escorted into the hospital. Her father had to be wheeled in on a wheelchair; He was still too weak from his chemotherapy treatment. Molly pushed her dad's chair and entered the cold room that reminded her of a giant freezer. She had read about the mortuary, she'd seen pictures. To finally see it in person was almost breathtaking- she smirked at her own joke when she was sure no one was looking at her.  

 

 

Goosebumps were rising on her skin and she felt a tremor run down her spine. It wasn't because of the chill in the room, or of her excitement of being in the morgue (  and yes, she was excited), it was another kind of excitement, a sick stomach churning one. The sensation became stronger the closer she got to the table. A body was under the white sheet. A body that could possibly be her mother.  

The examiner said something, but she couldn't make out whatever it was; she was focusing on the table. It could very well not be her as well, she reminded herself.  The examiner said something else, her father nodded, and the doctor pulled back the white sheet halfway. The body was ghastly. There was still a lot of flesh on the body, so it had just started decomposing... about a month and a half ago , she'd estimate.  And the face was... well it was very disturbing. The face was sunken in, a pale bluish green complexion, and the way her mouth hung open made it look as if she was screaming. She was missing quite a bit of teeth, and her jawline appeared to be broken.

_"... What happened to her jaw...?"_ She muttered to herself under her breath. The pathologist must have heard her, because he began to talk about it, " The jaw line hangs open like this because it's broken. See how most of her teeth are missing? Her jaw is almost completely broken off.  _Someone_  shattered her jaw with one hit. It's safe to assume that the hit was wielded with a weapon, like... the back of a gun, or a shovel handle. " The examiner looked sympathetically at them both. "We believe that this is the body of Emilia Hooper. In the description that you gave the police ten years ago, you mentioned that your wife had a tattoo of your daughter's date of birth on the back of her neck-"

 

 

 Her father cut the man off short, "-Yes, it was in Roman numerals."  He moved his steady gaze from the doctor to the body lying on the cold metal table.

"You think she was murdered, am I right?"

"Yes. The difference with her case, compared to the other victims, is that it seems as if her corpse was preserved. That she might have been held captive, or something, and her death perhaps came a little more than a year afterwards, and from there she was preserved, with quite a bit of care."

 

 "I'd like to see the tattoo."

The hospital worker, wrinkled his face. "About that-" He lifted the back of her head and exposed the back of the woman's neck. A shiny pink layer of flesh topped over the skin where her tattoo should have been. "It's the same thing with her fingerprints. It's almost as if the the murderer wanted to erase who she was, previously."

Molly almost gasped, and said exasperatedly, "They were burned off. Like what Oedipus did to his victims!" She looked earnestly at the doctor. 

The pathologist had a worried expression on his face as he tried to put an end to the discussion. "'Oedipus' has been gone for years, so this can't be his work-"

 

 "I- I'm sorry, but you did say that her fingertips and the back of her neck were burned, right? Aren't burns his signature?"

"Yes, but he would burn the entire flesh of the palms and the bottom of the feet as well dismembering them. That doesn't seem to be the case with these victims."

"No, you can't tell with other ones because they're just bones, but this woman-" her father stopped her by gripping her wrist and yanking it hard.

Tears were forming in his eyes, he tried sniffing them away, "It's her Molls. It's Emma. My Emma. I know it." He started to breathe rapidly, " I-I need to breathe, I-I can't -" He made a hacking noise deep in his throat as if he was about to vomit. The nurses were called in and rolled him out of the mortuary, with Molly following behind them. She paused at the double swing doors and turned around before going any further.

 

 

 "Doctor...?"

He stepped closer, scooting his glasses further up the arch of his nose. "Stamford." He gave her a sympathetic smile, " I am so sorry for your loss."

She bowed her head, "I lost her a long time ago, so... I knew this day would come eventually. But, thank you." She continued,  "I actually wanted to say that I plan on continuing my studies here at St. Barts after I attend uni. "

"Is that so? And what field are you interested in?"

She chewed on her bottom lip, nervously,and rocked on her heels a bit "The plan is to work hard and become a forensic pathologist- like you, sir."

Doctor Stamford looked at her with a funny expression "It's quite an interesting career, I'll give you that." He smiled at her, "Well, that means that one day you might become a student of mine, miss...?"

"Molly Hooper. I look forward to working with you one day, sir." She shook his gloved hand that had some blood on it.

"Oh, sorry! May I wash my hands in the sink over there?"  

He nodded his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the young girl. She glanced around the room, looking completely awestruck. She was strange, that girl, Stamford thought - she had just witnessed her mother's decomposed corpse on a slab, and yet here she was acting as if she were a foreigner looking at some sort of national monument. She gave him a small little wave before running off to find her father and the nurses.

 

  _"Doctor Molly Hooper..."_  He muttered quietly to himself, _"... sounds like a good name for a pathologist."_

 

 

 

_Molly was chained down to a bed, she knew it. She could feel the sheets beneath her and the tight chains that strapped her against it. Off in the distance she heard laughter that lasted for what felt like hours. It made her want to rip her own ears off. She also tried screaming, but no voice would come out. This is just a nightmare, she reminded herself, You know it is. It's a nightmare._

 

 

 

 

 

_"First, Mummy,"_

_"then, Daddy..." The once cackling voice whispered, suddenly right above her. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his breath and instead of it being warm like ordinary breath, it was cold. Ice cold. And stank of blood and rotten flesh. A cold drop of a thick, heavy liquid fell on her forehead. She knew right away that it was blood._

_"... now, MOLLY!" The person, shrieked, followed by high pitched laughter._

She jerked up from her bed, gasping and clutching to her chest. It took her a few moments to readjust her breathing. She analysed her flat from her fold up bed. 

Everything seemed to be in the right place. Well- where she left them.  _I'm a thirty-four year old woman who works as a forensic pathologist at one of the best hospitals in the country, and yet my flat looks like it's been raided by a teenager_  then, as usual, she reassured herself that the state of her flat was completely fine because she was, well:  _a forensic pathologist at one of the best hospitals in the country,_ she was too busy to be bothered by fixing up her flat because of her full time dedicated career, and therefore no one should judge her, including herself. 

 

 She noticed that the telly was on. _'Shit, I must have left it on before I fell asleep.'_  She searched her bed for the remote and once she found it, she stretched her arm and pointed it at the box prepared to press the 'off' button, when something interesting came on the screen.  

**Missing young woman** was the headline.

She turned the volume up higher.

_"Tara Gunning vanished mysteriously three nights ago after she dropped off her son at his father's home. The father of the child sent in a report after she hadn't arrived to pick up their son."_

The camera view then moved to a man, presumably the father of the woman's child.  _"I- I don't know what could have happened. She's never done this before, she loves the wee lad to death... She'd never do this. Not to him."_  That reminded Molly of the conversation her father had with the police all those years ago. She shook the memory off, switched off the telly, pulled the covers to her chin, and shut her eyes.

_"God help that kid,"_ she whispered drowsily into her pillow.  " _He's sure as bloody hell going to need it..._ _and I've got to quit drinking before bed."_


	2. The beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait guys! had lots of computer problems. Special thanks to Mindy and Sam!

**“Beep"**

Sherlock glanced at his mobile, slightly surprised. It was 3:30 in the morning, John was away on holiday, there were no cases to be solved, and his frustration was rapidly building over the lack of activity that enveloped his time. He was bored. Even when he disappeared into his mind palace he was bored. He picked up the phone to see who the message was from, and cracked a smile.

> Need your help. We found something you might be interested in. - **lestrade**

He raised his eyebrows and jumped up from his seat searching for his coat and began to text back.

 

> Rate? - **SH**

He paced across the room back and forth until he received the text.

 

> 7\. I sent a police car to pick you up, it should be on its way now - **lestrade**

A smile broke across his face as he made a small leap for joy.

Finally, a case. It didn't even have to be an interesting case for all that he cared, as long as it was something that needed to be solved. Weeks of repetitious cases of scorned lovers, or of thieving employees (all very mundane) drove Sherlock into a very disgruntled and bitter mood.

He finished tying the knot of his scarf, and with one final glance at his flat, he grinned and bustled out the door, galloping down the stairs.

 

> No need, I'll be taking a cab. Send me the address. - **SH**

**~~~~~~~~~~**  
After paying the driver, he stepped out of the cab and observed the scene before him. The address he received lead to a suburban neighborhood where most, if not all, the houses looked exactly the same. There were two police vehicles parked in the driveway, one next to the pathway, and an ambulance parked in front of it. He hurriedly walked towards the scene, anticipation building with every step he took. He lifted the yellow tape that contained the crime scene and lurched underneath it and onto the other side.

"Sherlock, over here!" Hollered DI Lestrade.

Donovan was sitting at the doorstep with a pale stricken woman in a nightgown sobbing over her shoulder. The woman was around her late fifties, unemployed, but still well off by the look of her clothes and front yard; freshly cut grass, trimmed garden and bushes.She's never done any kind of labour in her life, so the yard work was professionally executed. Obvious. She's a housewife married (unhappily?) to a man with a high paying job; a man of business. Sally caught sight of him and glared, recognizing that look on his face and knowing exactly what he was doing after witnessing it on many occasions. He arched an eyebrow and walked past her and the woman in crying hysterics.

"Where is it?" He asked. He tried not to sound too earnest, although he might have let it slip in his voice, given by the look Lestrade gave him.

"Follow me." Lestrade beckoned with a wave of his hand.

The detective inspector led him inside a small portable canopy made of blue tarp just outside of the house. Anderson and few others were inside hovering over something that lay on the ground. It was something rather small from what he could tell. A limb? Or some small fragment of a body? He inhaled deeply, sniffing for any scents like a bloodhound. Was that a lingering smell of blood? No, it was rust. He stepped closer to where everyone was huddled, and smirked.

 

 _'A seven, indeed,'_ Sherlock concluded. He snapped back to attention and raised his voice, "Everyone, out. I need to focus."

Anderson gawked at Lestrade, looking thwarted.

"Lestrade, he can't just-"

Greg glanced over at the consulting detective, who was crouched down, analysing the scene.

"-No, don't start, Anderson. Just do as he says..."

"B-but-" sputtered Anderson, making wild arm movements in Sherlock's direction.

"-That's an order!" He said sternly, "Move out, you lot!" He barked one last time.

Anderson rolled his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and groaned.

Sherlock squatted down to the ground to observe the sight before him.  _Interesting_. He put on a pair of latex marigolds and began his routine.

On the wet pavement sat what once was a delicately gift wrapped box with the lid lying next to it. Inside was a pair of aged earrings made of brass, a copper ring, and one 18 karat gold ring.

Lestrade watched the consulting detective as he absorbed the details of the sight. He picked up the items, bringing them close to his face.

"Torch." he demanded, in his usual melancholic way. Lestrade brought out a torch from his coat pocket, and handed it to him carefully. The detective shined the light of the torch on each piece of jewelry. His eyes moved rapidly over the items, inspecting every detail while muttering to himself. Greg could only catch a few words here and there, like female, cheap metal, and engaged.

"So, what've you got?"

Sherlock stood up, and snapped off a marigold with an all too pleased look on his face.

"These belonged to a woman, a young woman in fact. I'd say around the age of twenty-three or twenty-four. However, these pieces of jewelry are from a different era; The late 80's I'm assuming from the size and style of the earrings, which were a particularly popular fashion trend then. She has one copper ring and one gold ring; The copper ring is two sizes too big for her finger, she must have bought it from a pound shop, going by the cheap metal. The other ring is obviously an engagement ring. Not too difficult to figure out..."

"Yeah, we know all that already."

Sherlock shot his head up, and frowned, "You do?"

Lestrade folded his arms, and shrugged a bit, "W-well not all of that, but we know that these things belonged to Virginia Hempstead." He scrunched his nose, and sniffed, "Went missing twenty-two years ago. A severed foot was mailed to her parents, her right hand was sent to her fiancé, and the other foot was sent to Scotland yard. A year later her body was discovered in an open ditch."

"Ah, yes, I remember the case. She was one of the victims of Oedipus." His eyes flickered back to the ominous box that sat still on the wet pavement “Not the most 'fascinating' serial killer, but definitely an intriguing one. He had a peculiar pattern of collecting mothers that shared very distinct features, and he would then send their dismembered parts to very specific administrators. Always a foot or a hand, stamped with his scorched mark, with a consistent clean cut- what?" He paused midway through his exposition at the strange expression that Lestrade wore.

"That was back in '84."

"Indeed, it was."

"That means you were, like..." He thought for a moment, "...eight."

Sherlock blinked, "Yes. Your point?"

"You were investigating Oedipus killings ...when you were eight?"

"I kept track of them via telly and the newspaper; you’re asking the wrong questions, Detective Inspector. Why would someone bring her belongings here, after all this time? Whoever did this wanted to make a point."

"This is her parents’ house." Lestrade replied, "- I'm trying to think of who would play some sick joke like this, because these were the jewelry pieces Virginia was wearing the day she vanished...and I can only think of one person who could do this and please tell me that I'm wrong, because- "

"You're wrong. He's been inactive for more than 20 years, and the only reason a serial killer ever stops killing is either because he's been caught or he's dead. This is someone else's work; he’s probably a fan of Oedipus-”

“-Or she.” remarked Lestrade.

“95% of serial killers are male, so I believe it’s safe to say that we’re dealing with a he. The real question is how did he come into possession of Miss Virginia Hempstead's belongings?" He murmured, mostly speaking to himself.

"I'll take the box to Bart's lab to run a further in-depth analysis. I'll text you when it's done."

"Right now? It's four o'clock in the bloody morning, why would-" he paused mid-sentence and rolled his eyes, "I don't even know why I still question anything you do. Go on, go!"

Sherlock used his gloved hand to carefully dispense the materials into a plastic bag, when he heard yelling coming from outside the tarp.

It was a young man's voice, somewhere around the age of 25. This house belongs to his grandparents, seeing as he just shouted "Gran". He's obviously just received word of the unsettling discovery of his mother's belongings.

Sherlock stepped out of the tent and observed how the young man stormed through the scene with a quick pace. Red strained eyes, jittery hands, a heavy bag (most likely filled with books) strapped over his shoulder. He's wearing a wrinkled white dress shirt and dress pants that would normally be crisply ironed and ready to impress...not his boss, some other type of authority figure, so a professor. And from his attire, he's not just any uni student, he's a law student. He's spent the last three hours at his flat studying and finishing up an essay when he was interrupted by an alarming phone call from his grandmother, and that lead him here.

"Gran! Are you all right?!" He bent down, embracing the woman, and kissed her on the cheek, "I tried to get here as fast as I could." The woman was still in crying hysterics and it made it difficult to understand what she was saying, so the young man turned his head towards Sergeant Donovan, who had her arm around the other woman and asked her where the Detective Inspector was.

"I'm right here, Mr. Hempstead," Announced Lestrade, coming from behind the man.

Mr. Hempstead straightened up and approached him. "Detective Inspector, my grandmother informed me that she was awoken by the doorbell, and that she had found my..." He hesitated before saying the next word; as if it physically pained him to say it.

"... Mother's belongings on the doorstep. Who do you suspect could have done a thing like this?"

"We have nothing stable to go on just yet, Mr. Hempstead. This could very well be someone playing a sick joke, but I assure you, we'll do our best to get to the bottom of this occurrence. I've got my best people on the job."

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself with one hand to shield away from the chill morning air, while the other hand gripped the plastic protected evidence . He migrated away from the crowd and over by the street where a cabbie was parked waiting for him. Once he was inside the vehicle, he pulled out his phone and started a text. When finished typing said text, he spoke to the cab driver, negligently scrolling through his mobile.

"Take me to St. Bart’s."

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Molly silently rummaged through the unrecognizable flat for her blouse; once found, she drowsily put an arm through one hole before letting out a loud hiccup. She immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, afraid that the sound of her hiccup might awaken the wheezing naked man lying on the bed that she had just escaped from. She could hear his still heavy breathing and took that as sign that he was still asleep.

She had found her trousers and managed to get one leg through. She was standing on one foot trying to get the other leg in when she teetered sideways and started to hop around the room trying to regain her balance. _‘Shit, no, no, no! Please don't fall! Please.’_

Luck was not on her side, for at that moment she unknowingly stepped on a rug that slid against the hardwood floor. With a small yelp, she slipped and landed hard on her arse.

‘ _Well that was subtle. Really, really, graceful, Molls.’_

"Where are you heading off to, cutie?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the heat in her face rise.

‘ _Fuck.’_

She opened one eye to peek at the man lying on his side with his elbow propped up to support his chin. He looked fairly amused at the sight of her, and she couldn't blame him. She was on the floor with half her trousers on, blouse inside out, not buttoned properly, and her hair was tied up in a horridly messy ponytail.

"Not trying to sneak off, are you?"

She gaped up at him with her mouth hanging open, trying to get words out.

"I-I was just called into work. Well, texted, really. It's quite important, and..."

Her sentence died off, as she was distracted by the undeniably fantastic sculpted abdomen of the young man that lay comfortably on the bed. She tried to recall when she had met him last night, but to be honest with herself; most of last night had been a huge blur.

He certainly was attractive; auburn hair, nice brawny build, an adorable dimpled smile, although not really her type. He looked quite young...early twenties, perhaps?

_‘God, how much did I drink last night?’_

He sat up on the bed, shifting the sheets as he did, so that his bare muscular thigh was exposed. Brawny Boy made a disappointed little pout.  
“Oh, I see..." Then like a click of a switch, his eyes lit up. "Well maybe we could do this again, sometime?"

She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and scoff, so instead she smiled politely at him, nodded, and pulled up her trousers as she did. "Yeah, maybe."

She bent over to pick up her bag and shoes, and headed towards the door to find the exit to the flat.

"Wait, do you want me to call you a cab?" He bellowed after her, "And what's your name, again?"

_Goodbye, Brawny Boy._

She ran out of there as fast as possible, while trying to zip up her pants.

When she finally got inside a cab, she fixed her clothes and her hair, and sprayed a light scented perfume over herself, hoping to make it seem less obvious that she was trying to cover something up. Like the smell of someone’s cologne all over her body, for one. She was preparing herself for the deductions of a certain famous detective that would most certainly occur the moment he saw her.

 

 _'There's nothing to be ashamed of, Molly,' she told herself, 'It was just a one-nightstand. That's it.'_  
A nagging voice taunted her, ' ** _Right before meeting with Sherlock? Molly, Molly, Molly.'_**

In an instant, a strong tide of anger washed over her.

 _‘Why should I worry about what he thinks, anymore? It's not as if I'm in love with the prat.’_  
She winced as she felt a sharp pain shoot through her head and moved her hands to her temples.

_‘Just try and get through with whatever he wants you to do, and then go straight home and take a long needed nap.’_

**~~~~~~~~~~**

“Ah, Molly. Finally here..."

She could feel his eyes running over her disheveled look as soon as she entered the lab, and before he could utter a word about it, she beat him to it.

"Yes, I didn't come here from home, yes, I spent the night at a stranger's flat, and yes, I am slightly hung over." She threw on the lab coat that was hanging off the crook of her arm. "Anything else?" She challenged him with an arched brow.

He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "I wasn't going to say anything." He turned on his heel, avoiding her glower. He hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

"I see you're still upset..."

Molly scoffed, "Excellent deduction, Holmes; let's move on, shall we?"

Sherlock glanced at her with his peripheral vision. She snapped on medical gloves wearing a hard expression. _'Holmes?'_ She was more upset than he had originally anticipated.

He cleared his throat, and proceeded to take the evidence out of the evidence bag.

"I need you to assist me with running DNA tests on each of these items. I need to see if there's any chance that the suspect was clumsy enough to leave something behind."

"Who's the suspect?"

"It's not clear...yet." He muttered under his breath, concentrating on the box.

Molly stood next to him, watching as he removed the lid of the small box sheathed in gift wrapping paper that she assumed was once silver but had turned into a faded beige colour over time. He, very delicately, opened the container and she frowned when she saw what was inside. Those earrings.

Sherlock turned his head to look at her and studied her face.

"You recognize these items." It wasn't a question, he was stating it as a fact. He had read her body language and deduced that she had seen these before.

She scrunched her forehead, trying to recall any memory that could explain why it felt like she had seen these things before.

"I'm not sure... I mean, I feel like I do, but I can't seem to remember how-"

"Are you familiar with the name 'Virginia Hempstead'?"

She stopped at the mention of that name. Virginia Hempstead. she did know that name. She knew that name very well.

"I didn't know her personally, I just heard of her from watching the telly. Saw her picture being broadcasted, and..." She delicately handled one of the pieces of jewellery in her hands, and examined it closely; taking in the details, " ... I remember she was wearing these outlandish earrings in the picture."

He observed the young pathologist ogling at the evidence. "Most children wouldn't watch the news on their own accord."

She looked at him for a moment, before replying. "Yeah, you're right." She placed the earrings back gently in the box. "I watched it because of my mum and dad. They were really into watching news reports."

Sherlock kept his eyes on her, and muttered,"Mmm."

"I'm just curious, but where was this discovered?"

"It was found sitting on the doorstep of Virginia's parents’ home, earlier this morning."

‘Found...’ She looked at the intricate box. It was very well preserved, besides the change of the colouring. ‘….Like this?’

They worked together in silence, with a still chill in the air. She did everything he requested of her without hesitation. She hardly spoke a word to him unless he asked her a question to do with the progress of the results. She would respond with an edge to her voice which left him with an uneasy, awkward feeling on how to respond, so he murmured or nodded instead.

 

They had finally finished running tests on all pieces of evidence, when Molly peeled off her lab coat.

"The results should be in tomorrow, so I suppose we're done here, for now."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to where she stood. He kicked his feet off the desk, and stood up as well. He watched as she washed her hands, gathered her things together, and was heading out the door. He abruptly spoke before she reached it.

"Molly." He spoke in a low voice. She turned around with a stone cold glare.

"I wanted to say that, I..." He swallowed, preparing his next words.

Her glare softened a bit . "Yes?" She asked, with a smidge of curiosity. She had a feeling about what he was going to say; and if he did say what she thought he was going to say, she'd probably think she was dreaming.

"- I need fresh body parts to use for my experiments. Nothing in particular."

Her face instantly fell when he uttered the rest of his sentence.

She shook her head, with a look of disappointment. "Sure. Whatever you need, Sherlock."

And with that, she turned around and stepped out of the lab.


	3. Chapter 3

He wasn't entirely sure why he had stopped himself from saying what he had meant to say, but whatever the reason, he wished he had. He wanted things to revert to the way they once were with Molly, instead of all of the glares and frowns he received from her of late. Normally none of those things would have bothered him as he received them on a daily basis, but this was Molly Hooper, who, for a reason unknown to him, could provoke things like 'guilt' in him.

All he had to do was apologize, and everything would have returned to the way it was; yet when he had the chance, he said nothing.

 

It all started a month ago at their Christmas Eve celebration. John brought his new girlfriend, Michelle, who was a cashier at the grocer *dull*. He also invited their friend, Graham Lestrade. Mrs.Hudson invited a new tenant, a young man in his early twenties from abroad. His accent and mannerisms suggested that he was from a small village in Germany, most likely came to London to study at one of the universities as a transfer student. John knew how out of place Sherlock was when it came to social events, or socializing in general, and so he offered him a glass of sangria (Mrs. Hudson's special beverage), with the thought that it might 'help' Sherlock relax a bit.

Sherlock initially refused the offer, but then Molly arrived with her boyfriend… Louis? or was it, Lucas? Well whatever it was, it was beside the point. He could barely stand being in the same room as them. Every time Sherlock opened his mouth to make a comment, John would make a loud grunting noise in his throat and raise an eyebrow at him, signaling Sherlock to keep his mouth shut. Which Sherlock did, begrudgingly. Their puppy dog gazes, Molly's over the top laughter, and the sickening cuddling essentially brought the glass to his hand, and the wine to his lips.

 Relaxing wasn't the problem with Sherlock, though. If anything, it made him become more unfiltered. He had just downed his third beverage, when it was time to open presents. Everyone was passing out gifts, and voicing the irritating mandatory 'ooh's' and 'ah's' after someone opened their present . Sherlock stood by the window with his violin pressed against the crook of his neck, quickly growing frustrated at the alcohol induced tremor in his hands. He abruptly let the violin slip out of his grip and hit the floor, making everyone turn at the sound, and stare at him.

 He clumsily bent forward and picked it up. "It's alright. Shaky hands that's all." He leisurely waved a dismissive hand at them, "You can all go back to your, uh... 'ooh's' and 'ah's'."

 

John, and Lestrade both stood up and attempted to steer him to a seat on the couch, but he brushed their hands off, and 'steadily' brought himself to the couch on his own. What's his face tried speaking to him, saying something about "taking it easy on the wine", to which Sherlock responded with something shrewd and sharp tongued.

 "Watch it mate - and I think you've had more than enough of this -" John reached over to take away the 4th glass of wine that Sherlock was already halfway finished. He swiftly turned in his seat, angling himself away from John. "I'm perfectly fine." Even while drunk, his reflexes were sharp and precise.

 

Attempting to put a stop to the awkward tension building in the room, Mrs. Hudson pulled out a nicely gift wrapped present from next to the fireplace that had "To Sherlock" plastered on the top.

 "I think this one's for you, dear." She said in a cheery tone.

 

"However did you deduce that?" He grumbled under his breath, taking the gift in his hands. Molly made a little gasping sound of delight. "That's from me and _ ." She smiled brightly, "we picked it out together."

 He looked her over with a fluttering glance. Hair tied up, excessive amount of 'neutral' makeup, horrid over-sized lumpy Christmas jumper in scarlet, and pantyhose ripped at the seams. Her lipstick is smeared, either she smudged it deliberately for some cosmetic dreary effect and climbed over a few dozen wired fences, or she and what's his face had a quick romp before arriving . He turned to analyze the man; He had his hand discreetly in his pocket, fixing his privates. When he saw that Sherlock had noticed, his face transformed into the same rich dark shade of red that matched Molly's jumper. A cruel smile played on Sherlock's lips, as he set the gift aside.

 

"So, Molly. How'd you meet this one? Assumedly not at Bart's. He's certainly not an intellectual, given by his dense humour."

What's his face choked on his drink.

 

"- E- excuse me?!" The man sputtered, with wine now dripping down his chin. Molly pulled a hanky from her bag, and began to dab at him.

 " - Just ignore him, he's drunk... He doesn't know what he's saying right now..."

 

"I know exactly what I'm saying. And I can prove it to you; Your fellow here, has recently split up with a long term fiancée, or wife, and given by the way he subconsciously fiddles with his ring finger, having been used to wearing his wedding band, I'd say wife. The way that he checks his phone every 25 minutes show's that he's subconsciously not quite over her. She obviously left him, probably because of the wasted hours and low income of his failed graphic design business. All in all, this man over here would drop you in a second for his ex-wife.." He smiled lazily at all of them.

There had been an awkward silence which was disrupted by the sound of chair legs screeching against the floor, and someone leaping onto him and striking him in the face. He wasn't exactly sure who it was that hit him since he passed out only a moment after being punched. He woke up a few hours later in his bedroom, disoriented. John had explained what had happened and how that after he was knocked out, Molly and what's his face stepped outside the flat and got into a serious argument that led to them breaking it off right there. John advised Sherlock to apologize to Molly as soon as he saw her, which he begrudgingly knew that he should, but when it came it to the moment, he found himself avoiding the topic at all costs.

Molly seemed to be doing the same, although it was plain enough to see that she was vexed with him. He wasn't accustomed to feeling guilt, but when he did, he was muddled with what to do next. Apologizing didn't come easy to him. And as horrible as it may sound, he didn't feel as guilty as ordinary people probably would have deemed he should for what he said about the man. He had no explanation as to why, but he felt a bit of relief when John informed him that what's his name and Molly were not seeing each other anymore, even though it hurt Molly in the process. She deserved better than the likes of him.

 

He was going to apologize to Molly Hooper… eventually.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

When Molly entered her flat, she went straight to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of water,breaking the seal of a brand new bottle of aspirin and shaking two capsules out of the container. She moved over to her pull out bed, and lay down staring up at the popcorn ceiling. She closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would drift upon her soon, but however hard she tried, she could not shake the image of what she saw at the lab. After twenty-two years since her disappearance, Virginia's belongings were discovered at her parent's doorstep. It was suspicious, all right. She remembered seeing Virginia's face every mealtime as a kid. She was pinned right next to Caroline Smith, Joanna Tyler, and Freya Williams on the bulletin board that hung up on their wall next to their kitchen table. Their bodies were found in the same month; they were some of the first few of Oedipus's serial killings.

 

  _'It's been a while since I last heard of you, Virginia.'_

A thought popped into her head. She scrunched her face and tried to suppress an urge that rose inside of her.

_'Well, it has been a while since you last looked at it.'_

_'Just take a quick look at it and put it right back afterwards.'_

 

Giving in, she slowly and steadily moved off the bed for the sake of her pounding head. She went to her closet and searched through one of her unpacked boxes, and found a black leather strapped album. She brought it over to her dining table and wiped away the dust with her sleeve. Unbinding the straps of the album, she opened it hesitantly. The pages were stiff and hard from not being skimmed through for many years.

 

Molly found the page she was looking for. It was labeled under 'V.H.', for Virginia Hempstead.

 

She looked at her news clippings and at the notes she had written when she was a child, and found the picture the newspaper chose of Virginia for the front page. It was a picture of her at a new-year's eve party that she was hosting. She disappeared later during the evening after she stepped out to buy some ice at the corner store by her flat.

 She was wearing the very same outrageous earrings that Molly had held in the lab that morning.

 After a minute of reviewing the page, she slammed the book shut.

 

 What exactly was she trying to do? There wwas no point for her looking at this old thing. She wasn't the little girl from Brighton who theorized cold cases anymore.

 She was Doctor Molly Hooper; forensic pathologist at St. Bart's, who shared a charming little flat with an adorable cat named Toby, in her beloved city, London. Her childhood, that wasn't much of a childhood, was put behind her a long time ago.

 

She hesitated with whether or not she should throw the book away. Pondering over it, she came to the final decision that she would keep it, only because it was given to her as a birthday gift from her father the day she turned ten. She put it inside the cardboard box, pushed the box in the depth of her closet, and shut the doors.

 

She looked at her watch and saw that she had a few hours to spare before checking into work, and decided to take an hour nap, which was very much needed after her wild night before.

After waking up, still a little groggy, Molly stripped herself of her clothes on her way to the bathroom (one of the bonuses of living with no one but a cat. She stepped inside the tub and turned on the shower head and stood there letting the nice hot water stream over her body, washing away all evidence that last night ever happened. Events like that have been occurring more frequently in the last month and a half. It originally started off as a girl's night hosted by her friends from work to help Molly get past her rough break up with Levi. They would go to a club, have a few too many pints, get drunk, and hook up with someone for the night. It was supposed to be a night to let loose. She liked the idea of men throwing themselves at her and her having the power to shut them down. Even though she was intoxicated half the time and well beyond her clubbing years, she liked the feeling of being a wanted woman. She needed the reassurance that men actually wanted her after the horrible revelation that happened on Christmas Eve.

 Molly had come to a conclusion: that she had the worst luck with men and Christmas parties.

 Or maybe instead it was that she had the worst luck with men and Sherlock.

 

 

She scrubbed herself clean with a bar of soap, washed and rinsed her hair and turned the taps off. Stepping out of the shower, she reached for the towel on the counter and wrapped her body with it.

 She quickly changed and called a cabbie to take her to work. Molly still had a few hours free until her shift started, and came around herself to drop off packaged body parts at 221B.

 

When she arrived at Baker street, she shifted the container filled with ice and limbs on her hip and wrapped her fingers on the golden knocker and knocked.

 Moments later, Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "Oh, hello, dear! I haven't seen you around here in a while!"

 

She smiled politely at the sweet landlady, "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. I've come to drop these off for Sherlock- you can tell him that I put a spleen in, as well."

 

"Oh dear, he's not home at the moment; He got a phone call about some case this morning, and he hasn't been home since."

The lovely woman moved aside for Molly to enter the building.

 

"You can just leave those... things, in the fridge by the bathroom in my flat. That fridge is just for him when he's run out of space in his own, upstairs."

 

She thanked the woman, who then ushered her into the flat. Once she spotted the fridge that Mrs. Hudson must have been talking about, she opened it and settled the container she was holding next to a jar of eyeballs and two sets of hands on the other side.

 

Mrs. Hudson was at her side the second she shut the refrigerator door. "How have you been, Molly, dear? Did you and that nice man ever patch things up?" she scrunched up her nose, trying to remember something, "What was his name again? Was it Levi?"

 Molly could almost feel herself become pale at the mention of his name; she dropped her gaze to the floor and nodded.

 

"Yup, that's his name, and no we didn't. It's over between us. It has been, since... Christmas Eve."

 

The landlady gave her a sympathetic look, followed by a sigh. "Well, that's a real shame, dear. It was horrible of Sherlock to come out with it like that. Would you like to sit down for a cuppa?"

 

"I-I actually have to be getting to work right now, I just wanted to drop these off... Sherlock asked me for body parts earlier this morning, so here I am. "

 

"Oh, well, would you like me to leave a message for him?"

 Molly thought about it for a moment, before deciding that she'd rather not. Anything she'd have to say to him would end up sounding petty and childish. "Uh, no, no thank you. Have a nice day, Mrs. Hudson!."

 

"You too, dear!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist posting this chapter up, so here it is! Also, reviews would be lovely!(although you don't have to!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I'm really impatient, so here's another update.

_'Okay, only one more to go and I am done for the day...'_ Molly mumbled under her breath as she trashed her used latex marigolds and sprung on a new pair.  She snatched the clipboard balanced on the edge of a slab, and looked it over.

Her eyes widened at the name that appeared at the very end of her autopsy list.

_‘Oh, shit.’_

She jumped at the sudden sound of someone entering the morgue behind her.

“Hello, Hooper. Almost finished?” It was Irvin Marcus, a fellow pathologist. He was chewing on an apple.

“Um, yes. I was just looking at the last name on my list.  Tara Gunning?”

Marcus strode over next to Molly, and wedged the apple in between his teeth. He took the clipboard from her hands and observed the list for himself.

He bit down on the apple, and chewed. “Indeed, you're right. Why? was she anyone important?”

“I heard about her on the news a few weeks ago. She was missing.”

“Well, someone obviously found her.” he stole a glimpse of her when he knew she wasn't looking. She was so cute with her big doe eyes, and little button nose. It was too bad that she was still hung up on someone. “Why don't we take a look?”  He suggested.

“Yeah, okay.” she said,decidedly, snatching her clipboard back. She nudged him with her elbow, looking pointedly at him. “Throw that apple away, yeah? No food near the bodies.”

Together, they lifted the white veil partway off the body.

“Someone found her, and beat the living crap out of her.” she murmured, as her eyes traveled across each bump, bruise, and cut on the body.  “Poor thing.”

“Look at the rope burn on her neck.” Molly snapped her head up at Irvin, alert at the word 'burn'.

“Pardon?”

“ I said, check out the rope burn on her neck. She's got a big purple bruise around her neck “

 

“You think she was beaten up, and then strangled to death...”

“It's best to find out. If we went on assumptions we wouldn't well have a job now, would we?” Dr. Marcus spun away from the table enthusiastically, and started walking backwards in the direction of the door. “Text me when you're done. I'll give you a lift home.”

She was left alone in morgue, again, She pulled out her voice recorder and began the procedure.

“Dr. Molly Hooper doing an autopsy on Tara Gunning.” Using her measuring tape, she measured the woman’s height. “1.65 meters, approximately around 130 pounds.”

“Foot size: 8 and a half...”

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Molly swung open the door on the passenger's side. “You were right; Beaten up, and asphyxiated.”

she plopped herself on the passenger's seat, next to Irvin.  “Any signs that she put up a fight?” He asked, half focused on fixing his mirrors.

“Oh yeah, she put up a hell of a fight. Some of her bruises were fading, and some were fresh. So I think it's safe to assume that whoever did this had held her captive and beat the poor woman up, everyday.”

She frowned, until little lines appeared on her forehead. “ Th- the weird thing is that usually with these kind of scenarios...non-consensual things tend to happen; but there was no trace that anything like that ever occurred. So what I’m thinking is revenge.”

Marcus lolled his head back, and let out a hearty laugh. “Hooper, we're pathologists, not detectives.”

She angled herself in her seat so that she was facing him. “Yes, yes, I know, but don't you think it's a bit suspicious?This young mother who's had no history of violence in her record, disappearing into thin air, and then suddenly-” She stopped on the account of her own words; as if realization was slowly sinking in.

“Hooper,” he breathed out, with an amused smile playing on his lips; “We see many suspicious deaths in our line of work. This one doesn't really stick out from the others. Scotland Yard will figure it out, soon enough.”

Molly shook her head, and sat back down with a pout. “You're right. Yeah, you're right. It's just that

haven't had a good proper sleep in a long while, and it's making me all 'panicky' and weird...”

“It's fine, Hoops. Straight to your flat, then?”

“Yeah,” she conceded, “ Take me home.”

**~~~~~~~~~~**

He parked at the curb next to her building. “ Um. Hey, Molly, before you go...”

His hand gripped the back of her seat. “... I wanted to ask you something.”

She turned to him, staring at him expectantly, “Yeah, what is it?”

“It's about that bloke you had a thing with. I don't remember what his name was, but I heard things went bad between you two, and y'know, if you ever want to talk or, do something...”

Her gaze darkened, and she carefully chose her words. “ ...Do what, exactly?”

She knew about the rumours that were going around the hospital about her 'erratic' behaviour. It was none of their god damn business what she did off hours, and they could sod off for all she cared. Here, she thought Irvin was one of the more respectable, nicer lads that didn't listen to the staff''s rubbish, and yet here he was, about to put a move on her.  “Have a shag? I suppose that's what you were thinking.” she spat out her words with utter distaste.

“You know, I may be a little sad and vulnerable right now, but don't for one second think that means that I’m going to spread my legs open, inviting everyone for a ride!” She snarled at him, infuriated that he would actually think so low of her.

Marcus moved back in his seat, with his hands up in a way to show that he meant no harm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa-Molly. I wasn't- I didn't mean that... I  was just suggesting going out to a pub for a pint;  nothing like what you were thinking.”

She could feel the heat in her face radiate. The amount of times she managed to make herself look like a fool, could only mean that it was a godforsaken curse.

“Fuck. I am so, so sorry, Irvin. I really am. This is really bloody embarrassing. I just- I  assumed that you meant 'that', because of what everyone has been saying about me...”

His once warm and friendly demeanour completely vanished, and was replaced with a cold one. “Yeah, whatever. You can get out now.”

She felt bloody awful.

Swallowing down hard, she opened the door and stepped out onto the curb. When she turned around to thank him for the ride and to apologize a few dozen more times, he pressed a button that automatically rolled up the window and closed her off to him.

Molly stood there for an awkward moment, not sure what to do exactly, and turned around, tilting her head upwards while sighing into her palm.

Well, isn't this just lovely?  

Walking to the front of her building, muttering curses to herself, she fumbled for her keys in the front pocket of her bag when something sparkly on the pavement caught her eye.

It was a ring . Nothing entirely special or grand. Just a simple, one-studded ring. _‘The stud's probably fake.’_ , she thought to herself.

Although, It was very pretty.

She picked it up and pocketed it. Molly turned around to see if maybe Irvin was still parked at the curb, when she saw that he wasn't, she could feel the goosebumps rise on her arms. She had the uneasy feeling that someone was watching her.

_‘Don't be weird, Molly.’_

_‘You've been acting weird all day,’_

****  


_‘-stop it.’_

Nervously glancing around, she finally found her keys and hurried into the building.

She unlocked the door to her flat and pushed it wide open. Once inside, she dropped everything and slid down against the door. She sat there for a few minutes,meditating into her hands. She ended up fucking things over, again. Having Irvin in mind, she mulled over the things she had said to him. It was bad.  It was so bad, that she wouldn't be surprised if he decided to never speak to her again. He probably thought she was a freak.

With frustration boiling over her, she thrust the keys that were gripped in her palm across the room, scaring her ginger tabby who was innocently padding along the living room.

After collecting herself, she stood up and walked over to the refrigerator, extracting leftover chocolate cake, lime, and ice from the freezer. She placed them on the table so that she could crouch down and grab her Vodka and Tonic from the bottom cabinet.

The perfect remedy to her crisis, whatever that was.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

_“Pretty little Molly...” a finger faintly trailed up her neck, chin, and then met her lips._

_Everywhere the finger touched left a path of sharp biting pain. She couldn’t even shift her face to make a grimace, but she could feel the stream of hot tears slip from underneath her closed eyelids._

_“We bet this pain can't even compare to what those nasty people put our poor, sweet, little Molly through.”_

_She wanted to squirm, to fidget, twitch, to do anything that would prove that she could break out of the restraints locking her body down, and run for her life._

_The voice sounded like something else entirely on its own, but underneath the hissing and slur of speech, she could hear an undertone that sounded scarily familiar. It sounded like a certain Irishman whom she used to be 'well-acquainted' with. He blew his brains out on the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital._

_“Oh? Is our mousy Molly crying?” rasped the coarse voice. “No, no, no. That just won't do.”_

_“Well,” said the creature; this time sounding very similar to someone she once looked up to; someone else who was no longer alive. She felt her stomach drop._  
 _'Daddy?' Molly thought, despairingly, as more tears poured down her cheeks._

_“-...we'll just have to dry those tears up, now, won't we?”_

_Her lungs ached at how badly she wanted to scream at him._

_'PLEASE DON'T! YOU'RE NOT A PSYCHOPATH, DADDY! YOU WOULD NEVER DO THIS. PLEASE, PLEASE, DON'T DO THIS! I'M SORRY, DADDY, I'M SORRY!'_

_She tried shouting her thoughts with hope that they would somehow be projected and he would hear her, but it was no use._

_It brushed her temple with it's cold clammy hand._

_“We'll make it all better, baby.”_

_Suddenly her face became warm, and it increased until it was scorching hot. Searing pain engulfed her face, when sudden realization struck her._

_'They're burning my face,'_

_She willed herself to move, even though she knew that she was paralysed and that she was not going anywhere. '-N-no,'_

_'-NO!'_

 

“HOOPER, WAKE UP!” She awoke with a shriek and someone gripping her by the shoulders, shaking her. “Molly, look at me!” She opened her eyes and saw that Mike Stamford was at her side and two of her co-workers were standing together looking down at her, all wearing worried expressions.

She looked around and saw that she was in her office, with her head leaned against the chair, sitting on the floor.  
“I-I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep.” she stuttered, and lifted herself up, clinging to her desk for support. “ - How did I end up on the floor...?”

Dr. Stamford lent a hand to Molly so that she could steady herself, educating her on what happened. “You were having a night terror. Dr. Lee, here, reported that he heard you screaming from your office, and that when he tried to wake you up, you struck him in the eye.”

Molly's jaw dropped as she looked over Stamford's shoulder, and saw that Dr. Stephen Lee had an ice pack compressed to his left eye. She mouthed a sincere apology to him, and in return received a withering glare.

Stamford waved off the other two. “I'd like to speak with Dr. Hooper in privacy, thank you.”

Molly gulped heavily, and started fidgeting with her lab coat. When the door closed soundly behind them, Stamford proceeded by handing her a tissue. “For your tears.”

 _'What?_ ' She thought, confusedly, 'what does he mean _'tears'?'_

Her confusion must have been evident on her face, because Stamford started to explain what he meant.

“You were crying... when we woke you.”

Bemusedly, she reached up and touched her cheek. When she pulled her hand back, her fingertips shined with wetness. Shaking her head, she took the offered tissue and padded her eyes and cheeks.

“Molly, what's gotten into you? People have reported to me that you've been seen sleeping on the job two times this month. That's not like you at all.”

“I-I know...” she sniffed, “I don't know- I -I haven't been sleeping well...”

Stamford got a sudden knowing look in his eyes, and cut in. “What's today's date?”

She chewed on her bottom lip, biting hard enough to draw blood, before replying in a sullen tone. “January 28th, sir.”

He sighed heavily, and pressed his palm against his forehead. “The anniversary of your father's death is less than a week from now, isn’t it?”

She looked up at him warily, and then made an immediate smile, fake and firm, as if nothing was troubling her. “Yes it is, but that doesn't excuse me sleeping at work, and I can assure you that it won't ever happen again. Ever.”

He eyed her, worriedly, while fishing for something in the pocket of his trousers. Unveiling a card, he lifted it up and pointed at the number. “This number is for you to call a sleep therapist. Talk to your insurance company before making an appointment, and you should be covered.”

He nudged the card for her to take it, and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I just want my best pathologist at her best again.”

Molly smiled appreciatively at the man, and took the offering. “Thank you, Mike. I'll make sure to call them.”

Stamford nodded at her, turned, and left the office. When she was sure that no one else was going to come in, she crumpled the card in her fist and trashed it. She was fine; well at least she was going to be.

It didn't help that her night terrors were showing up more often than usual. They had made a reccurring appearance for the last few nights, ever since Sherlock brought Virginia Hempstead's jewellery into the lab for testing. The results came in the day after, and they had found someone else’s DNA on one of her rings. Scotland Yard's forensics team had yet to come up with a match, and for some reason that left Molly on edge enough for her nightmares to come back.

Returning to her desk, she continued to fill out forms, which is what she had been doing before she fell asleep. She made a face when she noticed the drool puddle that pooled on her desk (thankfully none of it touched the papers), and wiped it away with the tissue Stamford had given her.

As she powered through the forms, her mind wandered over to Tara Gunning. What had happened to her? Did they find her murderer? Had her case been solved? Her toxicology results came in the other day, and showed that she had a large amount of chloroform in her system before she died.

 _'No, no Molly. Focus.'_ She reminded herself, reproachfully.

_**'Sherlock would know.'** _

_'Nope, not happening.'_

_**'You could just text him, and ask him about it. Nothing more, nothing less.'**_  
Biting the inside of her cheek now, she brushed the thought away and carried on filling out the forms.

It was almost a quarter to four, when an unexpected text popped up on her mobile screen from a very old friend.

 

>  
> 
>  Guess who's in London at this very moment? ;)  **-Shirley**

Molly’s thumbs punched at her mobile keys, rushed with excitement.

 

 

 

 

> Oh my god, Shirley! Are you really?! **-Molly**
> 
>  
> 
> Yes! Come meet me for lunch, “Dr. Hooper”. When's your next break? **-Shirley**
> 
> A little less than half an hour from now. Where do you want to meet? **-Molly**
> 
>  
> 
> How bout that little café across from the hospital? I don't want to make you late for your next shift **-Shirley**
> 
> Yeah, sure! I'll see you there! **-Molly**

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Fidgeting with the strap of her bag, she scanned the coffee shop for a ginger haired woman. That's all she could really remember about Shirley's appearance since she last saw her; her gorgeous, luscious hair. She was such a pretty thing, and a real catch with the boys, even when they were really young. She hadn't seen Shirley since their trio split up after graduating college together. Molly went to London for medical school, Shirley took a gap year with a small group of her other friends to go travelling abroad, while Tom stayed in Brighton to help out his granddad with the tiny chip shop he ran on his own by the beach. They had all kept in contact. Sometimes they would even meet up to spend the weekend together - well, at least she and Tom did; Shirley was still travelling around the globe and would send them a postcard now and then, documenting her travels.

Molly was still searching the room for her best friend, when a young woman came up to her and hugged her. She stood there for a second, trying to comprehend what was happening, exactly. “...Uh, excuse me, I'm sorry, but do I...-” Stepping back a bit, she did a double take when she finally recognized who stood before her.

_'Holy fuck. She's gotten hotter. How is that even possible?!'_

The woman laughed. 'A god-damn gorgeous laugh, too, what the hell?!'

“Molly, it's me! Shirley? Your best mate?”

“What's in the water wherever you've been for the last five years? Cause,-” she gestured her hand at Shirley, from top to bottom. “- whoa.”

She chuckled and swatted Molly's hand away, “I'll take that as a compliment, but look at you!”

Molly arched an eyebrow at her friend, wearing a doubtful look. The woman was long and slender, and had flawless suntanned skin, obviously from lounging on beaches under the tropical sun. She was wearing a low cut shirt, with the right amount of cleavage to pull it off, skin tight jeans, and walking around in what Molly was sure were Jimmy Choo pumps. Her whole attire screamed designer, and Molly felt frumpy and dishevelled in comparison. She was wearing a plain blouse that was a bit wrinkled at the bottom, and beige slacks that were a size too big on her. She didn't even want to think about the shoes she was wearing because it would just make her upset.

“Oh, stop it! You look fantastic.” They moved over to the table that Shirley had already reserved for them.

Once settled, Shirley placed her elbows on the table and chinned her hands, showing off her perfectly bright, straight toothed smile. Her hair's more of an auburn, now. Probably why I didn't recognize her. She noted, considering Shirley from the seat opposite of her.

With a smack of her lips, Shirley initiated a conversation. “So how's life been? Must be really busy and exciting, since you're a doctor, and everything.”

Thinking about it; briefly dating a coworker who turns out to actually be a psychopathic terrorist, and forging the death documents of a genius detective while assisting him fake his death, would probably be considered an 'exciting' life to some. Oh, and the other stuff. The other stuff... Well, she thought it best not to tell any of that to Shirley.

“You'd be surprised; seeing as most of my patients are dead.” Her friend's reaction reminded her that she'd probably forgotten what medical field she was in. “Oh-Oh god, Shirley, I- I'm a forensic pathologist! All of my patients are dead! I work in a morgue.”

When she understood what Molly had meant, her face relaxed, again.

“Dear God, you scared me there for a second.” she breathed, “- but that's really interesting. You work in a morgue, I should have guessed, going by what your hobbies were when we were kids.” A bus boy was going to pass by their table, when Shirley stopped him with a hand, exposing her manicured nails.

“Hi, we’d like two macchiatos. One shot in mine, and two- no, three shots in hers. Oh, and a newspaper, please. Thank you."

Molly was going to speak up for the boy and tell her friend that that wasn't his job, but he was too busy staring at Shirley's chest to realise Molly's intentions and jotted down her order on a used napkin,then nicked a newsprint from another table and handed it to her at an unnecessarily slow speed so that his eyes could linger on her, a bit. Shirley fluttered her bright green eyes at him with a small, tight grin on her lips.

Returning her gaze back to Molly, she winked at her. “You seem kind of tired, and an espresso always wakes me up...” Her brows knitted together when she realised that she probably should have asked first. “...I'm sorry - I should have asked you if that's what you wanted. That was rude of me.”

Molly was taken aback at how different this Shirley was from the Shirley she had dropped off at the airport fifteen years ago. Old Shirley was uncertain about practically everything, and usually let Molly lead even though she was almost always as uncertain as she was. But this Shirley seemed as if control came naturally to her, like it was second nature. She obviously had changed the most out of the trio.

“No, it's fine. I am a bit knackered, so I think an espresso'll do me good.” she brought her hand to her mouth and started to chew on her nails. Yes, it was a nasty habit, but she was hardly ever aware when she was doing it.

“How about you, Shirl? How was...?”

“Madrid?” She chimed in, holding up her newspaper, “It was splendid. I've been there four times now. Gorgeous scenery, gorgeous weather, gorgeous men... gorgeous everything!” Her smile dimmed, when asked about what brought her back to the UK.

“Didn't you speak to Tom?”

“About what?” Molly asked, scooting closer on her chair.

“His sister-in-law went missing a few weeks ago. I flew in once I heard about it and paid them a visit. I was surprised that I didn't see you there... but I didn't comment on it. You seriously didn't know?”

Molly stiffened at the information Shirley had just disclosed. _'Little Ben's wife? No, that can't have-Tom would have- he would have-'_

“You know what? They probably didn't say anything to you because… because they didn't want to upset you. Y'know, cause of what happened to your mum...”

Molly shook her head in disbelief. “No, no. That's exactly why they should have told me. I can't believe it...”

“Yeah, it's a real tragedy.”

She tried to bite back her curiosity, but as usual, she couldn't help herself.

“...so, um, what do you think could have happened? Did Tom and Ben say if anything was suspicious about her behaviour, before she...? ” she inquired, dancing around the real question that was on her mind: _'what are your theories?’._

Shirley stared at her for a real hard minute, as if concentrating on trying to unravel her with her eyes, which made Molly feel small and uncomfortable.

“Molls, please don't tell me you're ... I gave up on that stuff a long time ago. You know why.” she looked pointedly at her on the last part. “They were serious, adult situations which we took for granted as kids, and things went too far.”

“I wasn't going... I-I- was just asking if-” She faltered and came out with it. “I understand that what we did back then was wrong. It was messed up; but Shirley, all I want to know now is what your thoughts are about the whole thing. That's it.”

“That it's a tragedy. _That's it._ ” she repeated, turning her attention to her newsprint.

With a sigh, Shirley straightened her newspaper, and started skimming through the pages.

Molly was silently kicking herself in the head at how she managed to get another person annoyed at her, when she caught glimpse of an article on her friend's newspaper.

“Hold on, Shirl, can I see that for a moment?”

She handed the print over to her. “What is it?”

**'CHARLES EARL HERBST AND FIANCEE SUSPECTED OF BEING INVOLVED IN THE GRUESOME MURDER OF TARA GUNNING -'**

 

 

 

 

 

 

>   **' - Charles Earl Herbst ( Ex-boyfriend, and father of the victim’s son,) is suspected to be involved in the mysterious disappearance and murder of Tara Gunning, alongside his fiancée, Sharon McMeel, who is believed to be his accomplice. They are suspected of conspiring against Ms Gunning, to be rid of her so Charles could obtain full legal guardianship of their 8 year old son. Friends of the victim-'**

Disrupted by the beeping sound of her pager, Molly reluctantly pulled herself away from finishing the article. _'Well, at least that answered your other question from before. Sort of.'_

“I'm sorry Shirl, but I've gotta dash back to work. How long are you staying in London?”

She looked up at Molly, who stood up from her seat and was gathering her things together, while sitting cross legged and running her fingers through her hair. “I might be here for a little while; my step-mum is sick. Heart problems, y'know.”

“That's awful to hear, Shirley. Uh, well, um, we can figure out sometime to properly go out later over the phone, yeah?”

The flustered bus boy returned with their orders. Shirley picked up her macchiato, and brought it to her lips, sipping it. “Most definitely. Now drink your espresso, and be off. I'll cover you."

Molly threw back her espresso, burning her tongue and throat doing so, and hurried out of the café and straight to work.

Shirley had transformed into an entirely different person throughout the years, and she supposed it was for the best. _'Yes, it was for the best.'_ Why did she assume that Shirley would still be the same old little Shirley from her childhood?

 _ **'Maybe,'**_ said a small voice inside her head, ' ** _\- It's 'cus you're still the same old little Molly_**.'

_'No,'_

_'-Never.'_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that there will be some Sherlock/ Molly interaction soon. You might just need to be a wee bit patient, though.


	6. Chapter 6

“It's not as if this should come as a surprise to you lot, but I might as well say it. I told you so.”

“Sod off, Sherlock.”

Scotland Yard's forensic science team had spent hours endeavored to see if the DNA on the engagement ring would match with any of their past criminals. Nothing showed up, to their frustration to Sherlock's blatant amusement.  
Ignoring Anderson's vulgar suggestion, he went on, crossing the room as the forensic team sat around a single computer, sitting in anticipation for the next test results to appear on the desktop screen. “I told you that this was executed by a fan. Look at the way it was prepared; The browning of the gift paper, the tears at edges, even the smell as if it's been sitting in a cluster of mothballs for years; it's all anachronistic.”

“This is the work of a person who had been watching on the sidelines for years,studying. Someone who, for whatever reason, has decided to finally enter and play the game.That?” he said, pointing at the evidence on the table next to Anderson. “That is an appetizer. The second and third course are yet to follow.”

Not bothering to turn around, he continued, speaking directly to an unaware Lestrade, who had just wandered into the lab with a pasty in one hand and coffee in the other.

“In fact, that's the very reason why I've come here. I need to speak with you in private, Detective Inspector.”  Lestrade responded by setting down his hot drink and chocolate glazed pasty, gloomily.

 

Greg Lestrade sat back, leaning in his chair with a hand pressed to his temple while frowning at a silent Sherlock, standing in the middle of his office, waiting expectantly for a reply to the information that he's dropped on Greg's lap.

“Look, I don't know what you expect me to do with what you've just given me- because this isn't exactly what I'd call 'proof '. And there's enough evidence pointing at Charles Herbst to say that he's the culprit.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, and scoffed. “You think that's evidence? That is nothing more than purely insubstantial speculation. The allegations against the couple, are false. Tara Gunning's murder is connected to this case, I am certain of it.”

Greg shuts his eyes, momentarily. _'Christ, Sherlock.'_

“Great, but until you can bring me actual evidence to back that statement, I can't do anything, Sherlock.”

He stared at him glaringly now, his jaw muscles flexing. “I may not have the particular 'evidence' that you require, but all you have to do is look at the facts that I've listed for you to know that there is a connection between these two cases.”  
He went on, “Tara and Virginia, both the same age, both single mothers who worked as cashiers. Tara was found the same day Virginia's box was, Detective Inspector. Coincidences, in my experience, do not exist.” He took a breath, and collected himself.  
“There is an extreme Oedipus fan out there who is presenting you with his first warning.”

Sighing, he opened his eyes again, furrowing his forehead. “I see the connections, Sherlock. I do.”  
He wasn’t lying when he said that; Sherlock, as usual, was right. There were obvious connections, he couldn’t deny that. But they needed more than that. Much more to reopen a twenty-two year old cold case with such a high profile. “So far there's only been one murder. I hate to say it, but the only way we can press on with this, is if...- ”

“ - Is if more victims materialise.” uttered Sherlock, finishing off the rest of his sentence. He had that look in his eye that always left an uneasy feeling in Greg's stomach. A look of dangerous, burning excitement.                "Just... just hold on a moment, I've gotta make a phone call to someone."

At the same time, Sherlock's phone vibrated, and he slowly maneuvered to the corner of the office, speedily texting away.

Spinning around on his chair to face an irritated looking Sherlock, he settled the phone back down on the surface of the desk.  
"Sorry, I had to have a discussion with another D.I. about a case I've been working on..."  
"Informing DI Dimmock to take over the Wallaby case? Good. You should bother to tell him that it was the caretaker that injected Mr.Wallaby with the Tetanus poison, although, not on purpose. The work of a lousy employee and a dirty needle. There you go, case solved. Now, back to Mrs. Gunning - "

Greg pulled back his head, casting him an agitated look. The man was brilliant, there was no doubt about that. He was especially brilliant at being an utter rigid pain.  
"Good god, Sherlock; how many bloody times do I have to say it?"

"I am aware; however there are more comparisons that I'd like to canvass."

Greg had had enough. He stood up from his desk, placing his hands on his hips.  
"I'm late for a meeting, Sherlock. This can wait."  
Sherlock gave him a doubtful look, seeming a tad bit offended at the lack of creativity in the blatant lie. "A meeting, is that right?"

"Yep, now hurry on and get out."

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Sherlock huffed as he seated himself, leisurely, in the cab, and rested his index finger along the right side of his face.  
He couldn’t say which of the two conversations he had just had was more agitating.

Actually, he could.  
He flipped through his mobile and read over the messages he had recently sent.

 

> _How's everything going? Any interesting case turn up?_ **-JOHN**
> 
> _A 22 year old cold case, actually. I'm currently at Scotland Yard enlightening Lestrade on a connection._ **-SH**
> 
> _Well, that's great to hear. I'll actually be staying here longer than I anticipated( Harry is doing rather well, by the way.), so expect to see me back at Baker Street a week, or so, from now._ **-JOHN**
> 
> _Or sooner. You may want to check the toilet tank in her bathroom._ **-SH**
> 
> _Stop it. Have you spoken to Molly yet?_ **\- JOHN**

Sherlock rolled his eyes, intonating a repugnant sigh as he turned off his phone and slipped it back into his coat.

 

During the past week the case evolved into something much more interesting, warranting his attention.

Lestrade was usually a compliant fellow when it came to Sherlock's deductions, following up quickly. Sometimes, like now, he showed himself to be obstinate.

Scotland Yard's abysmal ignorance towards obvious evidence was irritatingly redundant.  
But at any rate Scotland Yard would just get in the way, if they, by chance, decided to follow through on any of his directions.

He was halfway to Baker Street when his phone went off. He blinked.  
It was Molly.

Molly knew Sherlock's preference of texting versus calling, so this was an odd occurrence.

He immediately answered, swiftly bringing the mobile to his ear. "Molly?"

 _" S-Sherlock..."_  
Her voice sounded panicked. _'Not good.'_

"What is it, Molly? What's happening?"

 _"I - I don't know what to do...I - I just... I'm outside of St. Christian's school, an - and I think I ..."_ Her voice paused, _"I found ..."_

"What, Molly? Speak!"

 _"... I really should be calling Scotland Yard, shouldn't I? Oh god, what am I do_ -"

The phone line connection cut off, and Sherlock Holmes strongly requested that the cabbie turn the car around and speed towards St.Christian's primary, at once.

Molly found something, and from the sounds of it, she could possibly be hurt or in danger, and he would be damned if he let Scotland Yard get there before him.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Molly stuffed the end of her scarf inside her coat, as she tread along a pathway that lead to the tube she took every morning. Early songbirds were chirping, and the air had that dewy smell after a rain shower, which Molly loved. She walked under a tangle of branches with sunlight rays breaking through the cracks.

She felt good today.

She and Tom had spent hours talking on the phone the night before. He filled her on all the details of the events going on in his life, from the chip shop, to news about his sister-in-law.

Her name was Stacey, and she'd been missing for almost two weeks. Molly had only met her once, and that was at her and little Ben's wedding, four years ago. She was a decent, sweet looking woman.  
The last time little Ben saw her was when he left her sleeping in their bed before heading to work. No one saw her leave the house, and there were no signs of a break-in.

Tom hinted about wanting to come down for a visit soon by saying that he needed an escape from the chip shop; although, she knew the real reason behind it.  
The anniversary of her dad's death was tomorrow, and Tom always came to the city around that time.

This week was going to be a good one, she told herself.  
She was going to do everything in her power to make sure it was.

She and Shirley were set to go out for drinks later that evening, and Marcus finally forgave her about the other night, yesterday at work. She wasn't entirely sure that it was sincere, though. Maybe it was that he was just fed up with all of the apologetic looks she sent his way. Anyhow, she was content that they were on good terms, again.

Lost in her thoughts and paying no attention to her surroundings, she was brought back into focus by a huge gust of wind that blew over her, causing her to loosen the grip of her bag, and spill its contents.

She shifted herself down so that she was squatting, and began to pick up her belongings, while groaning and cursing herself.

 _"'scuse me, miss? Are you alright?"_ A far off voice called out.  
"Y - yes, I'm fine, thank you." Waiting for a response that did not arrive, she felt her cheeks bloom at the realisation that whoever spoke was probably not speaking to her.  
She lifted her head up to gaze across the street where an old building stood.

It was one of those gothic looking structures, with tall arches, long pillars, steep stone steps, and gargoyles placed on either side of the entrance. **_'St.Christians'_** was engraved at the very top of the building .  
In front of it was a playground.  
She peered around, intently, searching for the face of the voice, but saw no one except for a girl sitting on a swing.  
Slouching, really.

She was certain that it was a man's voice she'd heard.

Molly surveyed the woman from afar. She couldn’t exactly see what the person looked like, since she was covered by a hood, but something about her was off-putting. She was just sitting there, with her arms and head hanging down, almost like she was… lifeless?

_‘Wait.’_

_‘...no...’_

_‘...Oh god.’_

Abandoning her bag on the pavement, she raced over to the playground and towards the swing-set.  
Her pace slowed as she stepped closer to the swing, until she was standing in front of the woman.

Molly could smell the foul stench of death coming off her.

She stretched her sleeve so that it covered her hand like a glove, and placed it under the woman's chin, that she could carefully tilt her face upwards.  
Molly gasped, and pulled back, almost losing her balance as the body slid from the swing and onto the pebbled floor.  
It couldn't be. No, no, no. It couldn't be her. It just couldn't.

 _‘I need to report this.’_ was the first thought that emerged; her second thought was Sherlock.

It was almost as if it was programmed in her system, like a reflex, because before she realised it, she was dialing Sherlock's number.  
She heard the familiar baritone voice speak on the end receiver.

_"Molly?"_

He answered faster than she would have expected him to, and was surprised to hear that he actually sounded concerned.  
Now that he answered, she wasn't really sure how to come out with it - not that she was worried about how he would perceive the scene; no, she knew better than to explain to him that she committed no murder. He would know, because he was bloody Sherlock Holmes, and he knew her better than almost anyone, whether she liked that or not.  
In a moment like this, she was grateful for it.  
"S-Sherlock..."

 _"What is it, Molly? What's happening?"_  
He demanded, keeping the tone of his voice low, yet sharp, still.

A string of rambled words tumbled out of her mouth, before she could even comprehend what she was thinking.

 _"What, Molly? Speak!"_ She wondered, for a fleeting moment, that if his voice sounded the way it did, merely because of his inquisitiveness, or of genuine worry.  
She quickly pushed the thought away, and moved onto another.

In her brain it made sense that one of her first thoughts after discovering a body would be to call Sherlock Holmes, however she knew the normal protocol was to inform Scotland Yard before anyone else.

"... I really should be calling Scotland Yard, shouldn't I? Oh god, what am I do-"  
She cut herself off by hanging up and immediately getting hold of Greg Lestrade.

A sick churning feeling stirred in her stomach at the thought of what her next phone conversation with Tom would be like.

She turned her head back to the slumped body on the ground.

_'... Oh, Stacey.'_


	7. Chapter 7

Red and blue police car lights flickered across St. Christian's playground, accompanied by loud sirens of the fire department trucks who were just arriving.

"You do know that you've made our job ten times more difficult? Thanks for that."

Molly instinctively bowed her head, and winced at the words being spewed at her by one of Greg's men.

Long ago, after it was officially confirmed that the police had found the body of Emilia Hooper, Molly was recommended to attend counselling sessions. Being honest with herself, it hardly made any affect on her.  
In her mind, her mother had died the day she was old enough to realise that she was never coming back from a holiday.

Molly had always been a tolerant, patient girl, but there were times when it felt her self-control was being tested.  
Like when her councillors pursued too far, she'd feel her throat close up, her fingernails digging into her thighs, and she would sink her teeth into her bottom lip, so deep, it would draw blood; all to keep herself from creating a scene.  
One of her councillors was a buggy looking middle-aged man, who every session, reeked of cigar ash. She liked his sessions the best, because he usually never gave a care if she strayed from his questions, which she often did.

A memory of one of his rarer sessions drifted upon her; It was two days after her father had been locked in a jail cell and charged with assault. She had to pull out a large chunk of her savings to bail him out.

_"Are you angry at your father?"_   
_First, her throat closed up._   
_She dismissed him through clenched teeth. "No."_   
_He slowly set down his clipboard, and leaned in on his knees._   
_"Okay, I'm going to ask you again, but this time, the truth would be a better answer."_   
_Now her hands were raking her knees, making their way up to her thighs._

_"Are you angry at your father?" He repeated a second time._

_She couldn't make out an answer because her teeth were too busy abusing her lips. She shook her head._   
_"Molly, take your hands away from your thighs, and look at me;"_   
_She flickered her glare to where he sat comfortably, silently hating him for imposing this forbidden question on her._   
_"I'm... I'm not upset. I'm fine, really." She answered, carefully._   
_He sighed, and picked up his clipboard and pen, again._   
_Before resuming, he gave her a piece of advice._   
_"Whenever you feel that anger creeping up, take a breath, let it out, and count to ten. I want you to remember that for future reference."_

She inhaled.

' _One'_

_'Two'_

_'Thre-'_

"What on bloody earth made you think it was okay to go on and touch the crime scene? Isn't it a part of your job to know the impact of that kind of stuff?"

_'Oh, fuck it.'_

Growing more irritable by the second, her patience bomb was ready to detonate, and she had a very particular casualty in mind, when a certain DI interposed.

"Speaking of jobs; you better get back to yours, or you'll soon not have one." Greg's worker sucked in a breath, and turned away from them to join a group of officers that were chatting by the school gates.

She fumbled with the orange security blanket that a paramedic covered her with.

This was really happening, she thought.

"I'm sorry 'bout him, Molly. How are you feeling?"  
She pulled her eyes away from his, and settled them on the pavement. She opened her mouth to speak, waiting for the words to roll off her tongue, but when none came, she closed it again.

Greg scrutinised her with a concerned expression.  
"Sherlock tells me that you knew her... the victim. As a friend, I understand that you must be in tremendous shock right now, however, as a DI it is a part of my job to ask these kind of questions, so please forgive me... " he swallowed and rubbed his eyes before he continued.  
"We need to know who this girl was, and how exactly you two knew each other."

The news shouldn't have been as startling as it was, but as of late, everything seemed to be catching her off guard, and she had only realised now that she had forgotten to tell any of them that the girl was Tom's sister-in-law.  
"Her, her name was Stacey. Stacey Butterfield. I... knew her as my best mate's sister-in-law. We only met on a few occasions, one being at her wedding, and she was nice; very, very nice. You won't find any records of her here, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Stacey lived in Brighton. She and Ben, her husband, only came into London maybe once or twice a year for a shopping retreat. I - I recently learned that she had been missing for a few weeks, but I never imagined that she'd be... that I -"

"It's alright, Molly. Just relax. Breathe. I have one more question, and that'll be all for today, okay?"

She consented without making a sound, only meekly nodding her head in agreement.  
"The victim's face is a bit... battered. You're a pathologist, and you've probably identified hundreds of bodies... but, I need to be completely certain that this is your friend." He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair, searching for the right words.  
"...I hope you don't take any offence at this, but I requested for another person to identify the victim. Is that alright? I  just thought that would be easier for you.."  
It was her. Deep inside she knew that it was Stacey the moment she was within close proximity.  
"It's fine. Thank you for your consideration."  
 **~~~~~~~~~~**

  
' _Mild bruises on the arms, raw flesh around the wrists and neck,'_  
Sherlock cautiously rolled up the sleeve of the polyester jumper the victim was wearing.  
 _'Injection marks on the vein of the left arm,'_  
He scrupulously hovered his nose above the body, inhaling the scent.  
 _'Mildew, rust, and cedar... No, Pine.'_ He denoted.  
He lifted the victims hands and examined her fingernails, closely. Cracked and broken.  
His eyebrows jotted up when he observed the tan strip around her ring finger.

 

"- isn't it a part of your job to know of the impact of that kind of stuff?"

His attention was abruptly cut off when someone's conversation came within earshot.

It was Sergeant Colin Graves reprimanding Molly, who was sitting on a park bench wrapped in a mandatory security blanket.

He inspected the scene; specifically watching Molly.  
Her cheek muscles were flexing, as she was viciously biting at her bottom lip with a fixed stare on the ground. Some people would have the misconception of her expression being someone attempting to withhold tears, but no, he'd seen Molly on the verge of tears before, and this certainly was a look of something else.

He watched, enthralled by what move she'd choose to make.

Oh bother; Grant Lestrade intervened.

Coming from behind him, Donovan stepped in front of his view, arms crossed.

He tilted his head upwards. "Yes, Sergeant?" The tone of his voice was sardonic as usual.

"Isn't that girl a friend of yours?"

"If I remember correctly, Sally, as I always do, it was you who once said that I was not capable of acquiring 'friends'."

She rolled her eyes, and continued. "Look, I just wanted to give you a piece of advice, that's all." Sherlock was affronted at such an asinine suggestion. "That girl - whatever she is to you - just found her friend, dead. It's considered common courtesy to give people some comfort in those kind of times... Just thought you should know."

He stood up from the ground, dusted himself off, and looked back at Donovan. "If I ever was in need of assistance on subjects like 'common courtesy', you are certainly not the person I'd ask." He smacked his lips together, and wrinkled his nose. " _Just thought you should know_."  
He stalked off, brushing his shoulder against hers, as he did.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

An hour and a half later, he could honestly say that he did not expect the event that had unfolded.

He was at Speedy's cafe, with Molly Hooper seated across from him in the outdoor dining area .  
A smiling ginger haired waitress came over and handed Molly a menu.  
"The usual for you, Mr. Holmes?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes, and the same for Miss Hooper over here, Sam. With no tomatoes or onion."

The waitress hummed while scribbling their order down on a notepad. "Got it; Your food will arrive shortly."

Once she left, he noticed Molly frowning at him from across the table.

"I ordered you a Tuscan chicken sarny with chips, if that's what you're wondering. I saw you pick at a sandwich once, and you usually avoid onions all together."

"I'm not hungry." She'd appeared to have lost eight pounds in the span of a week and a half, and had dark, heavy, purple circles underneath her eyes, which had a tinge of red in them. A light breeze brushed over their table, and that was enough to send her small frame into a set of shivers.

He'd known of Molly's sleeping disorder, but this; how had he not seen this?

"You need to eat." Even as he said the words, he couldn't help but be reminded of the same words being used against him by his brother, Mycroft, back in his old drug habit days. He could almost hear his brother's voice taunting him. _'Hypocrite'_

She dismissed his words, and began enquiring him instead. "Why are you doing this?"

He had a readied answer if she were to ask this question; what came out instead, was an odd version of the truth.

"To, uh, comfort… you." The words tasted awkward and unfamiliar in his mouth.

She stared at him with a quizzical gaze that bordered on being humorous, which, momentarily, made him crack a smirk.  
Molly instantly picked it up, and formed a perceptive expression, nodding slowly, and lowering her eyes.

She spoke to him with her concentration devoted to her glass of ice water.

"You want information on Stacy." She said concisely, stating it as if it were a fact; it was only partly true. The believable part.

"… Perhaps." He murmured, after a short while.

"I honestly don't know what more I could tell you. We didn't exactly know each other very well...and, I just… I - I'm still in shock, and I'm very tired."

He shook his head, wearing an intent expression, as if trying to show her that he fully comprehended everything that she was saying.

"I can understand some of what it is you must be going through. Did your friend ever give you any indication that they were in a loveless marriage? An unhappy one?"

"Wh- what? No, Sherlock, I already told you, we barely knew each other- b -" she dipped her head. "- Tom did mention before that they had gotten in a few rows... but what couple hasn't?"

"I wasn't talking about her; I meant the husband." He stated, plainly.

Her mouth gobbled for air like a fish out of water, as she searched for words. He couldn't help but take notice that that was not the most appealing look on her.  
'Always so confused.' He thought, sighing while suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.  
"B - Ben? It's been a long time since we've talked... but no, he did not. H - h - he didn't set this up if that's what you're trying to get at...!" Her breath was ragged by the end of her sentence.  
"He could have, but you're right; he didn't."  
Molly shifted uncomfortably in her chair.  
"So what you want is - all that you want to know is m...-"  
"-... More about Stacy, but you can leave out the unnecessary facts about her being raised in Yorkshire, and how she was an extreme animal lover, or how she got the scar on the bottom of her chin."

She cleared her throat with quite a bit of force. "You seem to know more about her than I ever did."

He nodded, concurring with her proclamation. "Most likely, so -"

The legs of her chair scraped against the concrete floor as she pushed away from the table.  
"Good; you hardly need me, then. I still need to tell my best friend that I found his dead sister-in-law a few hours ago, so please excuse me, because I have to go home and make a terrible phone call."  
She got up to leave, and he knew that this is what ordinary people probably considered _'bad timing_ ', but when had that ever stopped him before?  
"I'm sorry about what happened on Christmas eve."  
'It worked', he thought as she halted, frozen in place, and the look on her face was readably unaware that she had heard correctly.  
"...Not during, but afterwards."  
He wasn't entirely sure what it was that he expected. Maybe a _It's alright, Sherlock, I forgive you!_ or a, _Thank you, Sherlock, but there's nothing to forgive_. Something that old Molly from before the fall would have likely said. The Molly he came back to... that Molly, was less for telling.  
She closed her eyes, and shook her head, with her hands held together under her chin, like a saint in prayer.  
"Let's not do this... n- not now. Please."

He dipped his chin in a nod, and when he looked up again, he saw the back of Molly maneuvering through tables and walking further away from him.


	8. Chapter 8

Molly paced back and forth in her small living room, also her bedroom, reaching out and then immediately retreating her hand from her mobile for what probably had been hours.

_'A liaisons officer has probably already spoken to them.'_

_'I don't even know what to say.'_

She sat down on the edge of her futon, and laid out her options.

_'Tell him and wait for things to gradually grow less awkward over the next few years, or so.'_

-Or,

_'Let Scotland Yard tell Ben, get Greg to leave me as anonymous, and continue on as if I had no part in it.'_

Obviously the first one was the more logical choice, and she would be deluding herself if she thought for one second that the other one could actually be probable. Nonetheless, it was a relieving thought.

She wearyingly extended her hand, reached for her phone that lay on the surface of her coffee table, picked it up and scrolled through her contacts, and pushed it away within seconds.

It was the furthest she'd gotten to calling him all day.  
She took solace into her hands, hoping to find some hidden bit of courage within herself to proceed with what she knew needed to be done.

A shaky breath rattled through her chest.

If Ben and Tom were to hear it from the officers first, she would never be able to forgive herself.

She found Stacey. It was a part her moral duty to tell Ben that she was the one that found his dead wife.

She had thought that within time it would become easier breaking this kind of news to people, but in truth, it hadn't changed one bit.

She picked up her mobile once more, and dialled Benjamin's home line.

**_~~~~~~~~~~_ **

"C'mon, Molly. Pick up. Pick up!"

Molly was not answering her buzzer, so that meant there was only one way Shirley was getting inside.

A middle aged man walked passed her and pulled out his keys to enter the building. She took a moment to fix herself and then moved in on her target.

After using her flirtability to get into the building and reading the renovation sign plastered on the lift, Shirley stormed up eight flights of stairs to Molly's floor level, and urgently knocked on her door.

"Molly? Molly, love, please open the door! It's Shirley!"

No answer.

"Tom called me. I know what happened. I know why you didn't meet me at the pub. Please, let me inside."

She waited almost three minutes before turning away, ready to leave, when she heard soft giggling on the other side of the door.

"Molly?"

 _"I- I can't o- open the door..."_ Molly said, followed by incoherent chuckling, sounding a bit muffled. _"It... It's under the mat..."_

Shirley bent down on her knees and lifted the cat paw-printed welcome doormat and found a tiny cylinder stick. A pick lock.

She inserted the stick into the doorknob, jiggled it a bit, and heedfully cracked the door open.

Molly was on the floor with a wine bottle next to her, caught in a fit between laughter and tears.

"You're completely sloshed!"

"Yupperooo, I am. I look dreadful, don't I?" She leaned onto her knees, on the floor, giggling.

Shirley took a glance around her friend's flat, and was astonished by the scattered mess that overtook it. Clothes, papers, empty food containers, dirty dishes were everywhere. Everywhere.

She quickly stepped inside, and shut the door behind her.

"Oh, poor girl. Come here and hand me that bottle."

Molly stumbled onto her feet by clutching onto the walls for support.

"Wha, what are you doing?"

She slurred, and held out the bottle with a weak grip for Shirley to take.

"I'm going to pour myself a glass, of course. Where's your cupboard?"

**~~~~~~~~~~**

"Don't worry yourself about it. Tom will be okay, Molly..."

"Christ, Shirley, I'm, I'm not worried about T-tom. I'm worried about lil Ben."

Shirley put a hand on her chest, and snickered. "Pfft! _Lord_. I can't believe you still call him that."

The two friends were sitting on the floor in the living room, wrapped up in blankets, while sharing a bottle of some rather expensive wine.

"Shush, now. This... T - this kinda thing ruins a person, I've seen it happen before. "

She brushed her hand over her face, and closed her eyes. "He started to cry over the phone, Shirley, and, and I panicked... so I, I hung up..."

Shirley sighed and scooted closer to her friend, pulling her into an embrace.

"It'll get better. It did for you, right?"

Molly pushed herself away from her companion, and searched the ground for her wine.

It never did.

When her dad lost his wife, it had extirpated everything that he once was. A loving husband, father, business man, and friend; that person had faded away like the view through a window on a foggy day. He was replaced with a stranger who was a chaotic, obsessive wreck.

On the day they identified her body, the remaining bit of his sanity went as well.

"Damn. where'd you get this wine? It's incredible."

She glanced at the bottle's name. "Oh. Oh! This was from my ex-fiancé."

Shirley spluttered her drink. "Wait, h - hold on." She put her glass down at this startling revelation. "You to mean tell me that you were engaged?!"

"Mhmm."

"-To be married?"

"Uh, yes."

"To whom? How come you never mentioned this before?"

Molly took a long sip of her drink before setting it down.

"We met during a really, reaaaally difficult time... "

_When Sherlock returned._

"...that actually should have been a very cheery time, but there were... complications... with me. We got a long, had fun, he was a great laugh... It was nice. Then, after only a few short months, he asked me to marry him."

Molly paused to take a breath, and went on.

"I mindlessly agreed, for alllll the wrong reasons. I, I was just caught up in the 'bliss' of the moment, y'know? Relieved that someone actually wanted to be with 'Plain ole' Molly'."

"...So, on Christmas eve, the night we were going to publicly announce our engagement, and the night I decided to introduce him to everyone, I found out that he was also in it for the wrong reasons."

They breathed in the awkward stillness of the room, with only Frank Wilson singing loudly in the background to break the silence. Molly chugged down another glass.

"What were your reasons, Moll?"

Molly gave it a moment's thought, before answering.

"To be loved, I suppose, even though I realise now I didn't really love him. To be... intimate with someone, and to finally move on."

"Move on from what?" Shirley gave up on pouring the wine into her glass, and substituted it for the easier method of drinking from the bottle.

"Oh, just a chap that comes into the morgue, often. I fancied him, like _reaaaally_ fancied him, but he hardly noticed. Which is weird, cause he normally notices everything."

"Mmm. Is he fit?"

"God, yes."

Shirley shifted herself onto her knees, and lifted the bottle up high.

"Then let's make a toast to hot, under-appreciated, single woman, yeah?"

Molly spit out her drink and broke out in uncontrollable laughter.

"No, no, no, stooop. Blimey, what are we characters from _Sex and the City_ , now?"

**~~~~~~~~~~**

It was so quiet.

Shirley was slumped on her bed, lightly snoring, while the young newlyweds next door were at it again, and the streets were still very much alive, even at this odd hour.

But still, it was too quiet for Molly.

_Five more minutes._

She was curled up by the tall window that was located in between the living room and the kitchen, watching Big Ben tick towards 3:00 am from her amazing view of the city.

 _"It feels like... like this gets more, and more difficult with each passing year."_ She muttered under her breath, doing her best not to wake Shirley.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away with the back of her hand as quickly as it came, as if suspicious that there might be a conscious person nearby to catch her in the act.

She tucked in her knees under her chin, and waited for the remaining minutes to pass.

_Three minutes._

_"Is this how you felt about Emma?"_

_Two._

_"... It's a shame we never got to bring her back home."_

_One._

Big Ben chanted loudly as its hand struck three. Molly tilted her head until it was pressed against the chilled window, it's cool sweat leaking over her forehead and running down the back of her hair.

_"Rest in peace, Cedric Augustus Hooper. I... I miss you, and I'm sorry."_


	9. Chapter 9

The smell of burning incense clouded every inch of 221B.  
At first, Mrs. Hudson had thought it was the scent of Sherlock picking up on his old nicotine habit again. Becoming concerned over the thought, and after repetitively knocking on his door which was locked, Mrs. Hudson made a short phone call to a person she knew would be able to get through the door.  
With some force, of course.

Three large guardsmen opened the door and entered the flat, followed by Mycroft Holmes.  
Shaking off rain droplets from his coat, prepared to catch his brother in the middle of a controversial position with narcotics, was instead, perturbed to find him lying on the living room floor, surrounded by incense sticks that decorated the residence.

"Heavens, little brother. What in God's name are you doing?"

"I was in the process of meditating, before you and your little mates derisively disrupted me."

"With unscented incense?"

"...It helps me think."

"There's a word for this, I believe it's called 'second hand smoking'." He was standing in the middle of the living room, speculating the entire flat from where he stood.  
His apparel contrasted dramatically with the chaotic mayhem that was Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock curtly got onto his feet, and started adjusting his robe. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Your landlady asked that I come here in case you've fallen off the wagon."

He scrunched up his face, and sneered at his brother and landlady's 'concern' over him.

He turned his back to Mycroft and picked up his violin case."I'm fine. You know where the door is."

"Keeping yourself busy with John gone, I see?" He asked, now studying one of the small Peruvian pots Sherlock had collected after a case about a supposed witch doctor cursing his clients who accused him of stealing from them.  
The families graciously repaid him with what they could muster, but Sherlock accepted the small figurines instead. The rare central american clay would make an interesting addition to his collection.

"Oh, don't bother pretending like you don't already know." He grumbled, putting his violin down and snatching the tiny pot from his hand. "I recognise when I am being watched, Mycroft."

Mycroft sniffed, and pointed his nose in the air. "So, rummaging around in the past, is it?"

"Quite so." He wafted some air towards him and took a large inhale. "What's it to you?"

"Just interested, that's all. Like you." He raised the pointed end of his umbrella and leisurely peered at it, before setting it back down again.  
"What have you so far deduced? Is old Oedipus back on the streets, or is it simply a copycat?"  
Sherlock snorted, and slumped himself onto his chair.  
"Copycat, obviously. He's ruthless, but not yet accustomed. He hasn't fully equipped the essence of the original killer, however, I deem that that is not a misstep on his account."  
"And why he hasn't sent sliced up cadavers to anyone yet, is because...?" Mycroft catechised, while thoroughly rubbing his hands with his pocket sanitiser.

Sherlock answered without delay. "- he wants to make an impression; a slow build up leading to an intensifying peak. A platitudinal tactic, really."

"To what audience? the families of the victims, Scotland Yard... or do you actually think it could be to you?" His brother wore that same expression he always did whenever he was in company with Sherlock; a horrid, sardonic grin that never failed to grate his nerves.

He narrowed his eyes at him. "The clues were left for someone who'd know a great deal of information about the original killer and his victims. Someone who would have had to have paid enough attention back then to recognise the style and order of these murders , so yes, in other words, me."  
Mycroft promptly drummed his fingers against the leathered seat, his lips set in a tight, thin strip.

"Well, if that truly is the case, I suggest that you look into why our killer journeyed all the way to Brighton for that young woman you found the other day."  
Sherlock glanced at his brother with the corner of his eyes, peering at him curiously, and quickly recovered a second later.  
"I know what I am doing, Mycroft." He said stiffly.

"I don't doubt that, Sherlock." He turned his head to one of the guardsmen, "Did you check where I requested?'  
The guardsmen nodded his head. " Yes, sir. There was nothing there, but ordinary kindle wood ash, sir."

The man was wearing a solid, dark grey suit, as a part of his uniform. There's a ballpoint pen inside his breast pocket that is labeled 'Harrison'. Not his name, but the name of one of London's funeral homes with the exact same font. Newly obtained, given by the impressive shine. Most likely given to him by the funeral home director, so an immediate family member has died recently; only an immediate family member would be allowed anywhere near the death documents with a pen.  
He widened his lips in a false smile, " See, brother? Nothing, at all." He said in an oddly chipper voice, " You should hurry along, now, as your pudding awaits."

Mycroft grimaced, not uttering a word, but simply lifting himself up from the armchair and waved a hand at his guards to signal them that it was time to leave. Before walking out the flat, he looked over the detective. "Watch yourself, Sherlock. You're slipping."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while since I last posted a chapter, but as usual, life has gotten in the way. This is a chapter I had meant to be longer (as there were more things I wanted to include), but for now, I felt this was appropriate.
> 
> I will do my best to continue with this story, as I already know how it will unfold, however it will take some time - or who knows, I might get whimsical, and finish this sooner than expected.


	10. Chapter 10

After that unwarranted visit, Sherlock sat himself back on the floor, legs crisscrossed, and closed his eyes, then quickly opened them again with the facts floating before him.  
On the left was one of the earlier pieces of evidence; Virginia Hempstead, and the decorated box filled with her belongings that was placed on the doorstep of her parents house, twenty-two years after her abduction and murder.

Under that were some of the facts she had mentioned in the journal she'd kept in her adolescent years. It was collected as evidence in 1988. He had snagged it from her evidence case when no one at Scotland Yard appeared to be paying attention.  
What he knew about her was this; she was born into a wealthy family. Julian Hempstead, her father, and the founder of a well known three star hotel franchise.  
She had attended a prestigious private school until she fell pregnant at sixteen, to her parents dismay.  
Her family made her an ultimatum; That she either get an abortion, or that she would go through the entire trimester and give up the child to another family once it was born. Virginia responded by packing her things and vanishing within the night.  
She lived in a Women's shelter for the majority of her pregnancy, where she also gave birth to her son, Richie. It seemed that she lived quite an ordinary life after her son's birth, working as a cashier at local market, having made lots of friends. She even got engaged.  
After her body was found, Virginia's parents recognised Richie as their own, and took him in. 

Onto the next victim,

In the middle was the photograph the media used of Tara Gunning. It was... peculiar, how similar she and Virginia's stories were, but there was something lacking.  
Why were neither of them branded?

Tara was linked with Virginia, he was certain of it; Stacey, however, was another story.

She wasn't from London, she was married, but with no children, and unlike Virginia and Tara, the environment she grew up in was a relatively normal one, although he wouldn't ignore the fact that so did some of Oedipus's victims.  
Technically, the only connection between Stacey and Tara were the similarities of their deaths.  
They were beaten, drugged, and strangled. Not necessarily in that order.

He was missing something, and It was obvious, he knew it, which made it all the more frustrating. He would have to delve in further.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Molly Hooper considered her options; She could either wear her bland funeral dress, or her even blander funeral dress. Oh, the choices were overwhelming.  
Once she put her hair up, and kicked on some low heeled shoes, she grabbed her bags and took the lift down to the ground floor.

Tom and Shirley were in a car parked out front, waiting for her just like old times. _'Well, under different conditions, obviously,'_ She reminded herself.

Tom stepped out of the car and hurried towards her, with an open embrace. "It's good to see you, Moll's. Are you doing alright?"  
She hesitatingly patted his back. Sober Molly was never very comfortable with physical contact. "Yes, I'm fine. I should be asking you that, though. How's everyone been?"

"The family is trying to cope - I'm trying to be there for Ben, but, y'know how it is. " behind him, she could see Shirley waving at them impatiently.

She nodded, and breathed in, and then out. "So, shall we go?"  
"Ye - yeah! Here, let me take your things." He took her bags and loaded them into the trunk, next to Shirley's things.  
_Onwards, to Brighton, then._  
The car ride was pleasant at times, with bits of small talk here and there, but a reminder of where they were going would keep them in check.  
It had been a long time since Molly returned to Brighton. It's little over an hour away from London, but she could never bring herself to return.  
Too many painful memories.

After some time in the car, she knew that they had arrived when things started looking familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may have made this really quickly, so um, its not edited. (Apologies for any mistakes)
> 
> And if anyone would like to let the people on ff.net that I'm continuing the story over here, will have my greatest thanks. :)


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